


Gentleman's Secrets

by Her_Royal_Majestrix



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Ambiguous Fandom, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Austen themes, Drama & Romance, F/M, Feminist Themes, Fluff and Angst, Intrigue, Smut, Social Justice, Victorian, slight Brontëishess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-16 06:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11823423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Royal_Majestrix/pseuds/Her_Royal_Majestrix
Summary: Will a gentleman's secrets change John and Margaret's world forever? A plot-twisted, tropey, fluffy, smutty North and South continuation.





	1. Willful and Wanting

Margaret clutched her side as her head rang with the sounds of laughter and clinking crystal. She stood on her toes, her fingernails scraping the wallpaper as she craned her neck. For all the effort, there was still only a scant view over the people milling about in the rosy candlelight.

Finally, toward the far wall, she saw a flash of golden ringlets. Her look of hopeful desperation settled to a frown as she watched a young woman twirl into her handsome suitor's arms. Whoever it was, Margaret mused as she sunk back to her heels, she was _not_ Mrs. Fanny Watson. With Dixon occupied in the kitchens, Fanny had, against all odds, become her sole hope of relief.

Slumping against the wall, Margaret resigned herself to immobility. Her restless eyes, as hungry for distraction as her stomach was for food, settled on a peripheral corner of the dancing area. Despite the servants’ attentions, one of the golden ropes had slid down, opening the velvet drapes. The accidental moonbeam filtering through painted each couple whirling past with an ephemeral streak of silver. The effect was utterly romantic, though she'd never been one for dancing.

She dismissed the notion of a turn about the floor as quickly as it came. Mr. Thornton, also lost to the crowd, had no doubt been entrapped into conversation with the other mill masters. His absence was just as well, as Margaret could never hide anything from him. At present, her greater problem was the inability to breathe. 

Her eyes closed as the shrill words which precipitated her present distress echoed in her mind.

_"Honestly, Margaret. Any lady who is anyone at all should be laced far tighter than this!"_

It had been but ten past seven when the young Mrs. Watson had barged in that morning. After a servant labored to carry up a suspiciously large portmanteau, Fanny had appointed herself to the task of scrutinizing Margaret’s gown. First, there was the make of the bustle, which was _woefully_ small. Equally insufficient was the length of the train, a 'dreadful' inch shorter than Fanny's own had been. To remedy these deficits, she had supervised zealously, having Jane fetch useless odds and ends from every corner of the house as Margaret watched, rather bewildered. Dixon had, rather presciently, left earlier for the flower arrangements and other necessary errands.

By eight o'clock, Dixon had returned, ready to lace her young mistress in as usual. Fanny, however, would have none of it. With a look of abject horror, she held up the offending corset with two fingers as though it were a piece of refuse, declaring loudly that only a _proper_ lady's maid could be entrusted with the task. After shoving Dixon aside, she'd presented Margaret with a boned article of gold brocade. It was quite small, French, and the same as used by a one 'Lady de Clare.'

Much to Fanny's abashment, Margaret refused to don the nonsensical contraption. Despite her cousin's entreaties at Harley Street, she had never been in the habit of lacing tightly, more mindful of her daily walks than of fashion. This day would be no different.

She had already girded herself for a battle, knowing the young Mrs. Watson was accustomed to having her way. What Margaret was less prepared for was Fanny stomping about so petulantly that Mrs. Thornton poked her head in to investigate. The old woman cast only a warning look before ducking out, much to Margaret's gratitude. 

Under normal circumstances, Margaret did nothing she did not wish. Alas, under normal circumstances, neither would she have listened to Fanny’s prattling on top of a sleepless night. Therefore, Margaret soon found herself listening to a sermon on the virtues of a 'presentable' figure as her laces were yanked ruthlessly. By the time Edith and Aunt Shaw arrived in a flurry of embraces, she had already stepped into her gown.

Soon after, the carriage had arrived. The dawn chill still permeated the courtyard as Margaret stepped out, hesitating momentarily on the landing. Reveling in the opportunity to fuss, Dixon made a show of adjusting the late Mrs. Hale's small diamond brooch pinning Margaret's cape. _“I cannot believe it is the last morning,"_ the old woman had said with sad fondness, _“that you will be Miss Hale.”_

And so it was that Miss Margaret Hale became Mrs. John Thornton. In the end, she had gotten her wish for a simple ceremony. Corset aside, her gown was modest, its cream satin accented with wispy golden ferns. Her bouquet was of Michaelmas daisies, their lavender almost white against the sun-bright centers. Those little yellow circles were almost the hue of Helstone roses, for which it was now too late in the season.

The service itself had passed in a blur of stone and grey and 'amens.' It was only when John had slid the band on her finger, his eyes shining with nervous joy, that Margaret gave her heart permission to soar. Doubt and pride had, for years, kept it anchored. But at last it was real: He was hers and she his. 

Only now as she descended to reality did it strike her how different today might have looked had she accepted John's hand years ago. She might have arisen to a sky that was sunny, rather than grey, before donning her favorite muslin. The six Boucher children would have worn eyelet as they skipped, scattering rose petals onto the red clay path. Nicholas and Mary would have been there—perhaps even Mr. Boucher. Her childhood friends, few though they were, would have lined the church road to greet her. And there, at the end, would have stood her parents and Fred, their smiles brighter than all the rest to see her happiness.

It was plain now that it was only ever fantasy. Without her parents—and worse, without Fred—it would never have been a true Helstone wedding. It was the southern Margaret who had dreamt of it, still a girl. Not the woman who had made Milton her home at last. 

"I dare not ask what you are thinking with that look on your face, Mrs. Thornton."

Margaret turned around to see Mr. Thornton— _John_ , she corrected herself—standing not a foot from her. His eyes, alight like a sky on fire, could arrest her from across the room. At this proximity, she did not know where to look. As had become habit, she chose the floor.

Her instinct was a reminder of how quick their courtship had been. Their engagement had been but a month. Though unspoken between them, it was implicit that to marry sooner rather than later was worth every raised eyebrow and whisper. There was no rational explanation to the world that, abrupt as their love might seem, they'd waited far too long already.

For all its brevity, their betrothal had allowed them to make up for time lost. They'd walked unchaperoned in the parks—a pleasure they delighted to learn they had in common. As they strolled in the crisp air above the smoke and warehouses, it was Margaret who did most of the talking. Both John's presence and her return to Milton were still so incandescent, so exhilarating, that the words burbled from her. There were barrages of questions about the welfare of hands and shop owners and masters alike. John answered each enquiry patiently, his mouth twitching with amusement. 

As was his way, when he did speak, his thoughts were of the future: of the mill; of prospects. It was only when the wind quieted that he would murmur of the past. That he could not sleep for days when she'd left. That he'd wanted to kiss her hand when first they touched in her tiny drawing room at Crampton.

Every unexpected revelation had filled Margaret with an indescribable lightness. He was, little by little, revealing the man so long in the dark to her.

Even so, the intimacy of the heart was not this—the sheer newness of him so close. From the moment she'd seen him looking down on the mill floor, she had measured his features, so sharply handsome that she could feel them as much as see them. The memory of her fingers grasping the nape of his neck the day of the riots, her cheek close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, always left her with a restless ache. She felt it again, and more acutely, as he strode toward her on the train platform, sleeves rolled and collar undone. By the time his lips had curved so tenderly against hers, defiant to all scandal, she was lost. Exhilaration coursed through her as he'd held her closer in their booth, every stolen kiss more urgent than the last. Her pounding heart was almost pressed to his when the ticket taker came. They'd had only a moment to collect themselves before pulling away.

Margaret quickly looked up, unaware of how long she had been lost in her reverie. For what she deduced was more than a few moments, he had been extending something toward her.

“They did not arrive in time for the ceremony, I’m afraid."

With an astonished breath, she touched the familiar glossy leaves. Little clusters of yellow petals were bursting from them, fully bloomed.

"How on earth did you get them?"

"New York. Last in the greenhouse, so I was told.”

She held back a laugh at John's gruff tone, belying the earnestness of his gaze. He should be scolded for such extravagance, even if he had found the roses. _Her_ roses.

“But how could you incur such an expense on my account? We have already spent—“ 

“It was worth every pound.”

Though his jaw was stern, a rare symmetrical smile accompanied it. Any further argument would be half-hearted.

Realizing that John was still rather awkwardly holding the arrangement, Margaret nodded at a nearby servant. As she placed the bushel of flowers into her arms, she grabbed a few loose stems. It would surely be her most cherished wedding gift.

“Fetch a vase for these, please, and put them in the sitting room.” The young servant girl—one temporarily borrowed from the Watsons—bowed to her mistress and was off.

When Margaret turned back, John had himself become lost in thought. Like her, he had little interest in trite conversation and being the fixture of attention. He surveyed the throng of Miltoners hopping to a jig with mild apprehension.

“We shall have to oblige them again at some point before the night is over, I'm afraid.” 

A flush bloomed on her face at the recent and rather embarrassing memory. After much toasting, and the newlyweds' refusal to kiss before the crowd, the Thorntons had conceded to a dance. Both of them had narrowly missed each other's toes on several turns. 

"I fear we would both do ourselves an injury at that pace,” Margaret teased. “But a waltz might have been agreeable had you not been engaged elsewhere.” 

"Already I am derelict in my husbandly duties, it seems.” John eyed the small group of mill masters huddled in the far corner. As Margaret understood too well, business was the inescapable fabric of Milton society. 

He extended his arm with a wry smile, looking thoughtfully at the chaise beside them.

“Shall we agree to _not_ dance, then?”

"That sounds more than agreeable, actually," she replied.

Bending her knees slowly, Margaret tried not to lean too much on his elbow. Just as she settled onto the cushion, another pang tore through her side.

She looked up after catching her breath to see John perched on the edge of the seat, his brow furrowed with concern.

"I am well, I assure you." With a wave of her hand, she bid him sit back. “The laces were tied a bit too tight this morning, that is all."

“I'll venture to guess," said John, frowning dubiously, "that it was my sister’s idea rather than your own.”

Margaret's fading blush reignited, both at the accurate assumption of what caused her present condition and who was (partly) to blame.

_“...And so she said, ‘But why can we not have two carriages if a horse has eight legs?'”_

The newlyweds turned toward the familiar high-pitched voice. As often occurred at such events, a small crowd had surrounded Mrs. Watson. The Thorntons watched as her fan cut the air with a theatrical slice, almost knocking poor Mr. Watson to the floor. 

“Fanny assured me it was how all ladies are wearing it in London,” Margaret blurted, appraising her sister-in-law’s ruddy cheeks and Watson's rather appalled expression.

If only she'd found Dixon while she had the chance.

John raised a facetious eyebrow, his smile crooked. “To think that the most sensible and willful woman I know consented to such impracticality."

“My good sense was misplaced this morning amongst the hairpins, I am afraid.”

How extraordinary it was, she mused, that here they were, after everything, jesting together like the oldest of friends. Marriage was already bringing an easier humor to the master of Marlborough Mills.

When laughter rung out again, she sought its source with a preemptive cringe, sure that Fanny had toppled over a serving table. Instead it was just another nameless guest's that sounded painfully similar. Just another person, either one she did not know, or did and could not stand, had come to celebrate. It was enough to sober her from a joking mood.

“But I suppose not much about weddings is sensible, is it?” 

As though reading her thoughts, he offered a wan smile. "Mother is a true Northern woman in that she invites anyone and everyone of rank within fifty miles to a wedding." A look of tenuous strain overtook him. "A Milton wedding is not a Helstone wedding, I know."

“But you know I’d no longer wished for that.”

“Yes, but you cannot truthfully tell me that this—” he made a sweeping gesture to the room—“is what you wanted, Margaret.”

Her mouth opened, but all too quickly it slackened. There was no sense protesting when he knew so well that indeed it was not what she had wanted. As predicted, Mrs. Thornton had balked at hosting only a small wedding breakfast. In the spirit of compromise, Margaret had ceded control of the domestic details in which she took little delight. Somewhere in the proceedings, the wedding 'breakfast' had lengthened into a fete that had well outlasted the daylight.

Watching her husband's pensiveness, an insensible fondness overtook Margaret. Not long ago, she had construed his silences with all the prejudice in her heart. It had taken too many of his kind gestures, once so willfully ignored, to see that his reserve was more often born of thoughtfulness than anger.

And, in truth, she did not mind the occasional tempest. All of London's gentlemen combined could not exhibit such passion.

"No, John. Marrying you today is all I wanted." She paused, his Christian name lingering on her tongue. Her fingers danced over his hand, which she found situated respectably on the cushion between them.

"And I cannot thank you enough for the flowers. I could not have wished for a better gift."

He brushed the apple of her cheek. “I was too overcome earlier to tell you how beautiful you looked today.”

“I—I thank you. I was a bit overcome myself, even before the corset.” Margaret bit her lip, knowing she would flounder should she say more. He had always, unlike other men, praised her character over her appearance, a habit which only augmented the effect of his words upon her now. Furthermore, she could not return the compliment, lest she tell him how much the grey of his suit brightened his eyes. If she could help it, he might never don black again.

He moved closer, the hand that had swept up her arm stopping below her sleeve.

"It is not right of me to say—“ 

“To say what?”

She'd sounded, to her embarrassment, as curious as she’d felt. She forgot any shame entirely as the thin silk of his lips traced the shell of her ear.

“To say that you look even lovelier when you are so pale."

Whether it was the depth of that inimitable voice or the shock of such a gesture in public, she was helpless when he cupped her cheeks in his hands and brought his mouth to hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before he, a mirror of her own frustration, delved into her with maddened impatience. The seeded pearls woven into her gown popped off with tiny pings, her petticoats bunching around his trousers as he pinned her to the chaise. Margaret's grip tightened, the pulsing between her legs quickening as his firm warmth pressed deeper into her skirts. She held back a sated moan, trying to remember how to breathe, as kisses seared ever lower on her neck. She cried out only when her breasts spilled from her bodice and into his hands, the sound of ripping fabric tearing through the air—

“Thornton!”

Margaret retracted her hand as if burnt. When she finally looked up, her husband was staring at her with a very unreadable expression.

With some apparent irritation, John waved to acknowledge the call. It was Slickson, a bit red-faced and gesticulating wildly.

"I am sure it is the same story about Henderson’s that he's told but a million times." He put his hands on his knees with weary reluctance. "But I'd best pacify the man before the brandy unhinges him altogether."

Margaret nodded, both relieved and disappointed as he rose. When he looked back, however, his expression had changed. His eyes, _those_ eyes, seemed a darker sapphire than she’d ever seen them.

“And perhaps when I return,” John murmured, “you might tell me what has so quickly restored color to your cheeks.”

He bowed slightly, with the same reverence as ever, before he turned. His aquiline profile darkened to a silhouette just before he strode away.

It was not until he was out of sight that Margaret slumped in shocked embarrassment. Her face had always been an open book, for better or for worse. Never had she had thoughts of that nature, corset or not.

Not _quite_ that nature, anyway...But, regardless, he had seen them.

Placing the flowers she was still clutching onto the table beside her, she glanced at the clock above the chimneypiece. It was only ten past eight. Edith and Aunt Shaw were, no doubt, already hunting the room for her as they’d not fussed over her for some time now. Margaret turned back toward the party, bracing herself for more fatiguing socialization.

“Not enjoying the celebration, I take it?”

She nearly tore her neckline with the speed at which she turned toward the gentleman now standing above her.

If, she thought with growing consternation, he could be called a gentleman at all. Her eyes swept over a long velvet brown jacket and checkered trousers. Both were too loose for what seemed to be a pair of slender legs. The ensemble clashed horribly with a black silken top hat and the sweep of ash brown curls brushing his shoulders.

“I am quite enjoying it, thank you.”

The man’s pearled smile widened, despite her clipped reply. “No need for ceremony, madam." He looked with amusement about the room.

"I share a similar disaffection for fetes myself, you see. Particularly those as ostentatious as these.”

Margaret's eyes narrowed with deliberation. He was certainly not at dinner, and was unforgivably late. He had also missed their introduction and that embarrassing round of dancing. Clearly, she thought with some amusement, he had no idea that he was speaking with John Thornton's bride. Though she took no umbrage to his ignorance, nor his comment about the party, he seemed very free with his speech, this stranger. Very free, indeed.

She was toying with the idea of introducing herself when he eyed the vacant space beside her.

“May I, then?”

Before she could reply, he took the liberty of sitting, rather languorously, beside her anyway.

The corners of his eyes creped as his smile deepened. “I daresay, a woman so divinely charming should not be left to languish in a corner.”

Margaret offered a dry smile. When Henry had praised her at Edith's wedding so long ago, she had been blissfully unaware of the designs behind men's flattery. She was wiser now. 

“Sir, you do not know me to call me ‘divinely charming,’ if I could ever own up to such a thing. I can also assure you that I am not _languishing_ as I’ve no inclination to dance.”

“Are you merely an observer of human nature, then?” The man's gaze drifted downward before landing on the arm of the chair. 

Margaret stilled her wrist, hearing how audibly her fingers were drumming against the stiff cushion beside her. She folded her hands primly. “Perhaps, if such a classification satisfies you.” 

“ _Satisfies_ me?" The man released a throaty laugh, one too genuine for polite society. "Indeed, it does.”

Though Margaret had inched away when he'd sat, she could not help but assess him more closely as he turned toward the light. With wisps of silver at his temples, he was years older than John, she surmised. The length of his hair was, upon closer look, less unseemly when accounting for the diamond shape of his face—an array of angles from valleyed cheeks to razor-thin lips. The narrow gracefulness of his features, rare in a man, were ill-matched with a pair of thick eyebrows that were two shades too dark. They served only to better highlight the uncommonly pale green of his eyes.

Leaning against the arm of the chaise, his features enlivened as he looked directly across from where they sat. “No doubt, _that_ one provides enough entertainment for an entire West End production.”

Margaret's heart sank as she followed his gaze. As luck would have it, it was Fanny, now fully in her cups and liberally sloshing her champagne onto a mortified Watson. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she attempted to spin her helpless husband round. 

With a small measure of familial duty and general indignation at his impertinence, Margaret gave the stranger a warning glare.

“Though I am keen to observe, sir, I derive no pleasure in mean-spirited speculation—especially about my sister-in-law.”

“Indeed not, madam. I meant no offense, of course.”

Though it would be any gentleman's cue to take his leave, this man did not. Instead, he put a finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture of contemplation. His eyes, which apparently never ceased to rove, rested on Fanny’s old piano in the corner of the room.

“Do you play, then?”

“I regrettably take little pleasure in it.” If only in an effort to do something different with her hands, Margaret took to smoothing her skirts. It seemed he was going nowhere. 

“Hmm." He propped his chin on the ball of his palm, scrutinizing her as though she were some marvelous puzzle. "Perhaps it is reading in which you find pleasure?”

Margaret raised a vexed eyebrow. Something in the way he stretched the last word of his sentence sat undeniably ill. “I have read many books, sir.”

“And I would wager you the best read woman in this room.” He gazed at the ceiling, a rather quixotic look in his eye. “ _If women are to have the same duties as men, they must have the same nurture and education."_

A dull stinging sprang to her eyes, one she already knew she'd be powerless to fight. While her father had seldom read to her, Margaret remembered that passage particularly well. It evoked the smells of drying flowers and drier paper. A time when things were simple.

“Plato," she whispered. Coming back to herself, she cleared her throat. "It is curious that a man in trade would consider such books worth his while." Again she paused, smiling this time. "Though, of course, there are some men in Milton who seek acculturation through the classics.”

“You will forgive me, madam, but I do not recall saying that was in trade—nor that I hailed from Milton.”

Margaret's cheeks peppered at his sly grin. The measure of his accent was obvious.

“No sir, I suppose you did not.”

He cocked his head roguishly. “And you, my lady, are certainly not from these parts.”

“I confess, I am not from the North, though I am proud to have called Milton home for some time now.” 

“Ah, how mysterious! And now, I believe, is the part where I inquire what brought you from—Hampshire, I would wager—to Milton?”

The stinging of her eyes from which she'd only just recovered returned. She’d no interest in recounting her early days in Milton to anyone, let alone a stranger. Those memories were heavy with smoke, confusion, and loss. The worst was the day her mother had discovered the truth impelling their relocation. There was no forgetting those inconsolable cries piercing the stuffy air of their Crampton home. It was the last time Margaret had heard her raise her voice.

“My father wanted us to come here. He wished to enlighten the people of Milton.” As she turned, forgetting her resolve to maintain her distance, her eyes lingered on the roses she’d placed on the adjacent table. She looked toward the ceiling, trying not to blink.

“I wish he could have been here today.” 

She waited for the man to speak, to offer another pithy comment. When she looked down, having willed her eyes to dry respectably, he was staring at her. In that jade gaze was a profound empathy wholly at odds with his previous commentary, shallow as it was. For all the shortness of their conversation, it unnerved her. _He_ unnerved her.

“Forgive me, madam, I meant to cause you no distress.”

She nodded. His tone was so soft that she could only think to say, “You meant no offense, sir.” 

"Oh, you are too kind." To Margaret's relief, his impish grin returned. "Though," he continued, "I would say a change of subject is in order."

Margaret frowned. She'd already been away from the party far too long to have gone unnoticed.

"I appreciate the thoughtfulness, but I would be remiss not to rejoin the party."

She was about to bravely gather her skirts when something very soft brushed her hand. It was, she saw upon looking, the smallest rose from the table, currently grasped between long fingers. The rose trailed over her knuckles as the man raised the broken stem to his temple.

“Such pomp suits me ill, does it not?"

Shocked at his forwardness, Margaret's hands dropped to her lap. She should not reply, she thought, even as her lips parted to speak.

"I am not known for my subtlety sir, so I am inclined to agree."

"And I am known to respect a woman who speaks truly," he replied, still wearing the ridiculous flower.

Despite his taking such liberties with the décor, Margaret could not suppress a slight curl of her lips. However brash his speech, his lightheartedness was refreshing. For some reason, that twinkling of his eyes, like those of an old storyteller, sparked a vague recognition.

She was still trying to make the connection when cold leather touched the crown of her head. Fingers clad in the same material smoothed a curl behind her ear as silky petals tickled her earlobe. 

“I think, however,” the man murmured, “such ornaments suit _you_ very well indeed.”

In that moment, with his fingers upon her, time slowed to treacle. For every second he lingered, her mind raced toward a furious conclusion. He was nothing but an ill-mannered stranger.

An ill-mannered stranger who had just _touched_ her.

“I doubt it, sir, as I am too old for such decorations.” She pinched the rose from her hair, peering archly toward the edge of the room.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve not yet greeted the Beresfords of Lindon. They are my mother’s family and would be most offended if I did not engage them.”

Something like disappointment skittered across the man's features before he composed himself. “It would pain me to keep you, madam, especially from the esteemed Beresfords of Lindon." He winked.

“But please at least permit me the pleasure of assisting you up.”

She was considering the tersest refusal possible when the stranger's wiry frame sprung upward, his offer seemingly forgotten.

“Ah—Thornton! I was just getting acquainted with your new bride.”

When Margaret looked up, a familiar arm was proffered to her. A spike of guilt shot through her as she grasped John's sleeve rather feebly. There was no knowing, she mused as she stood straight, how long he had been standing there. 

“So I can see.” John nodded curtly, his rigid jawline sending a shallow wave of nausea through her. “Margaret, Mr. Thomas Everhart.”

Margaret froze. Though he'd made no effort to introduce himself, it was now obvious he'd always known that she was the new Mrs. Thornton. As for his identity, Everhart was not a name of significance. Not even Fanny, who could rattle off nigh every person of import from Milton to London, had ever mentioned him.

____

The man smiled, more eagerly than ever in the wake of John's frigid welcome. “Delighted to be properly introduced, Mrs. Thornton.”

It was only after a lengthy pause that Margaret saw his outstretched hand. Remembering herself, she reached out with a hesitant motion she hoped was not obviously unschooled. Shaking hands was still an awkward convention to her.

Without warning, he bowed, rotating her palm toward the floor. Color dusted her cheeks as she again felt the shape of his fingers through supple leather. His lips, soft despite their thinness, dotted a kiss aimed perfectly between the lacework of her glove. In the span of a breath, he drew closer than before. She could almost taste the crisp fall air that still clung to him.

In a moment, the interlude was over and he stood tall again. Margaret resisted, with a modicum of difficulty, the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt.

John stepped forward, folding his arms across his chest. It did not escape his wife's notice that he had failed to extend his own hand.

“I had not expected to see you in Milton, Everhart.”

“Always to the point, aren't you, Thornton?” said Everhart with a chuckle. “Why, I am here on business, my good man.”

Margaret got the discomfiting sense that business, or talk of it, was not what prompted her husband's responding glare. 

“I should have said I am surprised to see you here specifically. I don't recall Mother sending an invitation.”

Everhart shook his head with mild castigation. "Have you ever known me to bother with such formalities, Thornton?"

"Formalities or," John turned to Margaret, “what some might call common decency.”

The warm blue of his eyes was now a clouded, defiant slate. He drew himself to his full height, his acid words still cutting the air.

Everhart tugged at his coat sleeve mischievously. “Well, I admit I am not suitably dressed, though I did hope it would be overlooked."

"Your attire does not concern me. I also doubt that your business involves my mill, or my wedding for that matter.”

"Come, come, Thornton. I only wished to congratulate you and Mrs. Thornton on your wedding day. I’ve no intention of discussing financial matters on such a happy occasion."

His eyes darted to Margaret, their depths holding an intent that now matched his twisted lips.

“I’ve also no intention of delaying you from any marital...bliss.”

Margaret looked up at her husband with a desperate flush. His face was now a veritable storm.

“You will excuse us then,” John grated, his arm tightening around Margaret’s waist. “Our invited guests demand our attention.”

"Why, of course." Everhart held Margaret’s gaze for a moment too long before nodding at John. He pulled his loosened gloves tighter, caressing every crease of leather until it was again smooth. Margaret's stomach sank, feeling as though she were watching something she shouldn’t.

Everhart bowed wordlessly to John, and then to Margaret.

____

"And until next time, Mrs. Thornton. I do so look forward to another conversation about Plato."

____

Before she could reply, he tipped his hat, as though to flaunt the impropriety of wearing it indoors. Neither Thornton moved until they heard the click of the closing door from the hall.

____

"Who on Earth was that man?" Margaret demanded in a whisper. 

____

John rubbed his temple, peering into the hallway as though Everhart might re-materialize like some ghastly specter. “No one of consequence.”

____

“It surely did not seem—”

____

He turned to her, severing her inquiry with blazing eyes.

____

"Seem like what? Though he has made himself _acquainted_ with you, Mrs. Thornton, I would caution you against judging him based on a single conversation."

Margaret’s veins ran hot and cold. There was now no doubt John had seen the exchange with the flower. Though it was unwanted, a man who was not her husband had touched her all the same.

But, indeed, she thought as she appraised the curl of her husband's lips, it _was_ unwanted. Her eyes narrowed decisively. Clearly, she'd been wrong to think him above such presumptions after everything they'd endured. The jealousy of his tone was too close to that of the _other_ John Thornton—that man from long ago whom she had so tried to forget.

“You need not worry about my hasty judgment of him, Mr. Thornton. It seems you have judged me quickly enough yourself.”

She had already taken a few steps away from him when she felt a light grip on her arm. Gently, he spun her back toward him, almost as if they were dancing. She watched agape as he brought the back of her palm to his lips. He had, she realized, never kissed her hand before.

It was, notably, the one that Everhart had neglected.

"I thought nothing could bring out my temper on such a day. I saw you sitting near another man and—" John shook his head. "There is nothing to excuse it. Forgive me, Margaret.”

A swell of guilt overtook the effect of his tenderness. _Sitting_ was all he had seen.

"I would be grateful, for reasons I will explain,” he urged before she could speak, “if we could leave the matter for the night. But I promise that tomorrow I will answer your questions as honestly as I know you ask them."

Beyond her control, the tightness unwound from her shoulders at John's testing smile. He’d known well the effect those words, laden with sentiment, would have upon her. The words were precious all the same.

“I—of course. I understand."

They walked back toward the party arm-in-arm. She glimpsed a few of the guests departing, some of whom were weaving a bit as they entered the foyer.

“The celebration has been lovely,” she supplied.

John stared straight ahead, as though at something she could not see. “Indeed it has.”

Margaret plaintively surveyed his shuttered expression, having no other gems of conversation to mine. "There is still some packing to be done for our trip. I believe that Dixon has almost finished securing the trunks.”

"I see.”

“I—I hear there are some new shops in Portsmouth. I was thinking that perhaps we could—“

Portsmouth and plans faded instantly as she felt those long, broad fingers brush a delicate place beneath her jaw. She should be angry that he was not listening at all. Instead, she tried to keep her head from lolling shamelessly into his hand.

John averted his gaze, as though embarrassed. It was only after a moment that she realized he was staring above the scant lace at her neckline. Recalling what his imagined touch, his kisses, had felt like in that very spot made her feel warm—everywhere.

"I do not wish another moment of discomfort for you, Margaret," he murmured. "I will tell Mother we are to retire."

She frowned. “But what would she think of us?” And what of our guests?"

“Almost all the guests have gone,” he replied softly.

The lulling rumble of his voice did nothing to diminish the pull of heat drawing her toward him again, nor the burn of his gaze.

A quick look about confirmed he was right. All the masters were gone. Other than Edith, Aunt Shaw, and a few of Fanny's loyal stragglers, there was no one left to miss them.

Her heart thundered. Despite her nerves, she could not refuse. There was also no consent she could give that could sound proper. So, with a shaking breath, Margaret said:

“You’d better go and tell your mother, then.”

There was no hiding his relief with that perfect crescent smile, still present on his face as he bowed. Margaret looked away as soon as she glimpsed the grey satin gowned figure toward which John strode with purpose. It was never wise to risk censure from the Thornton matriarch.

Instead, she peered into the hall until she saw the first few steps of the grand staircase. It would be some effort to climb them in her state.

There was also the bigger problem, she realized fretfully, that she had no idea what would happen when she reached the top.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I published this story on ff.net two years ago under the name “Willful and Wanting.” It was a half-done hot mess (and still arguably is the latter), but I had to finish it. I took it down, reworked it, refinished it...and this is what I came up with.
> 
> A few things I’d like to mention now so I don’t have to apologize for them profusely and continuously (which I’m bound to do anyway):
> 
> 1) I ship John and Margaret more than I ship any ship. I have watched the North and South miniseries over 25 times. Please keep that in mind when this story makes you want to throw pointy objects at your technological reading device.
> 
> 2) I welcome any concrit, cabbages, banana peels, dollar bills...whatever you wanna lob at me (though hopefully not pointy objects). Just know that I've already beaten myself up soundly over this fic, and I likely already agree with you.
> 
> 3) Depending on your interpretation, you _may_ find Margaret and John a _smidge_ OOC. Many writers tend to fluffify John into a sexy, fluffy fluffbundle post-canon. I am not one of those people. My John’s still got some edge. He has a warm, generous heart and Margaret has changed him greatly, but he can still be the same stubborn, stoic, horrible communicator he was before. In my view, Margaret is altrustic, outspoken, prejudiced, contemplative, reserved but not meek...and most definitely human.
> 
> 4) I am not sure who else in this fandom has attempted an OC like Everhart. I know what you’re thinking. Putting myself in a reader’s shoes, I would probably get my bloomers twisted in a bunch if I read about a guy smarming around and putting the moves on Margaret. However, I did this to be a trailblazer, dang it.
> 
> 5) My author’s notes will (hopefully) never be this long again. 
> 
> Love,  
> ~HRM


	2. The Morning Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, holy tomatoes! I didn't think anyone would actually like this thing. Looks like *uncomfortable cough* the pressure is on.
> 
> Sorry this is a little late, but here it is. Kind of a slower chapter, but I promise it's gonna get spicy in more ways than one.
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kudos and comments. They make my fragile ego nervous, but also inspire me to continue.
> 
> Love,  
> HRM

"Margaret?"

The call was tinny and distant—too easily dismissed as a dream. Margaret slid upward with considerable effort, blinking her eyes open to mid-morning sunshine. She struggled for a moment before kicking free from the tangle of sheets constricting her ankles. It was odd that one side of the bed was undisturbed, she considered groggily. It was odder that she recognized nothing in the room at all.

She bolted fully upright, her hand nearly knocking over a glass on the table beside her.

_Oh dear Lord, no._

Wrenching the coverlet off her legs, Margaret scrambled onto her knees. Her gaze darted downward, heart hammering. The last splotches of color from her adjusting vision faded as she searched the bottom linen where she had lain.

_Nothing._

The coverlet slipped from her fingers as she sank into the mattress. She scarcely knew the indications, other than blood. Her mother, even when well, had never dared broach matters of such delicacy. If only there had been more time with Edith, Margaret thought with regret. Judging by the abundant daylight, she and Aunt Shaw were well on their way back to London.

Still submerged in thought, Margaret skimmed her fingers over the slightly damp fabric sticking to her sides. As she reached to peel it away, she felt a faint indentation crossing her ribs. Her thumb grazed over it, spurring a dull throb.

_What had happened last night?_ She remembered walking up the stairs, and before that... 

_'You’d better go and tell your mother, then.'_

It was recollection enough to lift the murky veil on the events of the evening that had most shamed her. She fought the squirming impulse to dive back under the covers.

_The chaise. Roaming, needing hands._

Those fevered imaginings, the longing as her body had arched into his, felt all too real. 

And that was all before, she thought with a deepening flush, the intrusion of Everhart. Knowing him for all of ten minutes, she could have moved aside or excused herself despite her discomfort. _Could_ have.

With a muffled groan, she buried her head in the pillow. She'd always been an anchor of practicality. When her parents would retreat behind their polite masks, it was she who forced honest conversation between them, no matter the consequences. Rather than fainting or simpering, she had braved the riot at Marlborough Mills. As a practical woman, she'd never seek the company of men, especially on the transparent pretexts that many of those fainting, giggling women were wont to do. It was for this good sense that John had esteemed her before he had loved her. 

Her behavior last night had been anything but sensible. It was bad enough that she had permitted a stranger to be so open in his affections. But the swooning wanton she had been with John, her body writhing in the throes of unspeakable fantasy, was worse. No corset could excuse the thoughts she had so willingly indulged. 

"Margaret, will you not answer me?"

The voice from her dreams, much clearer now, was an unmistakable baritone. 

"I—I am awake. Just a moment, please."

She hobbled toward the settee, her left leg still needling from sleep. A dressing gown of embroidered ivory and gold had been draped neatly.

Slipping on the gown with haste, she clambered toward the door. Glimpsing a bare shoulder, Margaret knotted the sash into a hasty bow before pulling the doorknob, breathing through a final tremor of doubt. 

Her anxiety was only magnified at the sight of him. There he stood, fully pressed and dashing as ever. He somehow stood tall even as he hovered, gripping the door frame with hesitation. It was only upon closer examination that she noticed the faint purple crescents looping beneath his eyes, slightly dulling their blueness even in the morning light. 

She encouraged him with a nod, but his white-knuckled grip held fast. He stared past the strong bridge of his nose at his feet—as though he wanted to look anywhere but at her.

"I trust you have recovered then. In truth, I did not know when you would wake considering your state."

"My state..." Margaret's voice vacillated between affirmation and question, trying to dismiss the sterile tenor of his words. Once again, she tried piecing together the fragments of their wedding night.

"I am presuming, then," she said quietly, "that I did not make it far past the staircase."

"It was only after the last of the guests had bidden us farewell. You had also been fortunate enough to have fallen gracefully.” His eyes darted to meet hers only to resume his fascination with the floorboards. 

“After we took you upstairs, Dixon was more than able to attend to you."

"So it was Dixon who loosened my...helped me?" Her reply ended in a whispery trail as she registered the insinuation he'd no doubt perceive. She doubted it was customary for a husband to help his wife undress. 

His jaw moved forward, as though he was about to say something of utmost importance, before his lips clamped tight. "Yes," was all he uttered.

Eyeing a pair of cuff links on the bureau, Margaret’s throat went dry. It was now painfully obvious why she had not seen this room before.

"Where did you sleep, then?" was all she could manage to say.

"In Fanny’s old room. I thought it improper to join you while you were so indisposed.”

Dread weighted Margaret’s chest as he appraised the state of the bed, particularly its untouched right half. The disheartening truth was plain enough, but her forthright nature compelled her to confront it.

"Then we didn't—"

Something, pain or anger, flashed in his eyes.

"No. We did not."

She reached forward for him, her limp fingers barely touching his sleeve as he stormed toward the window. Upon arrival, he leaned his elbow onto the high windowsill, head in hand. 

In vain, she stared at his back willing him to face her. Even his handsomeness could not obscure his struggles—every movement and feature betrayed his honesty. _I am still your Margaret,_ she wanted to profess. Moments of silence passed, her anticipated eloquence dwindling with them.

“I never meant to behave as I did, John,” she blurted. “You must know that." 

She listened to the subtle rattling of the window glass in the breeze until she could no longer bear waiting for the response that would never come. She walked to the mattress, flopping onto it with dejection. 

With her impropriety, she had made a spectacle of herself. Worst of all, she had failed her husband at the first chance to prove her devotion in their marriage. If she could even, she pondered with despair, truly call herself his wife at all. 

She almost did not notice when the mattress depressed slightly beside her. 

"You know well it is I who need to apologize, Margaret." 

She looked up with hesitation. His lips were set to a razor-thin line, as they were only when that rare temper was fanned aflame. How, then, could his eyes and tone bespeak only earnest contrition? 

“Apologize? I do not understand.” 

"I did not—did not consider you in the way I should have,” he said, with measured defeat. “I did not even question if my attentions would be wanted.” His neck stiffened, as though tensing for the executioner’s axe. He fixed the bedpost with a glare that threatened to gnaw holes into it.

“I’ve no doubt that I am no longer a gentleman in your eyes." 

She had felt his restraint the night before, how his eyes caressed her though his touch had not. He was undoubtedly thinking of her as any man would his wife. Even so, she thought with shame, his thoughts could not have rivaled the baseness of her own.

How shameful that her husband now rued his affection due to yet another misunderstanding.

The frustration of this last thought launched Margaret to her feet. She walked a few steps until her dressing gown brushed against his trousers. Giving herself no time to rethink, she laid a reassuring hand just above John's knee. She could not remember ever touching him below his waistcoat, making the words she spoke a bit unsteady.

"You will always be a gentleman. Especially if you still think me a lady in return.”

John gently removed her hand and rose. He cupped Margaret's cheeks in his hands, bidding her to look into his eyes. They were bright again and held no expectation.

"I could never think you anything less." 

Despite her misgivings, she was not brave enough in that moment to disagree. Instead, she silently vowed silently to never again behave in a way that made her unworthy of him. Him brushing an unruly curl away from her eyelashes brought her back to the present.

"I can only hope every day will be as perfect as yesterday. Though perhaps quite a bit quieter—and perhaps without letting Fanny lace you in."

"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Thornton." 

"John, you mean."

She felt the cautious bashfulness of her smile. "John."

A look of profound intention settled in his eyes as he pulled Margaret closer, still careful to maintain a small pocket of space between them. It was as though he was about to request her hand all over again.

"I also want you to know,” he began, “that should we not share the same bed tonight, I could never think less of—"

"But I could not possibly—"

"Please let me finish, Margaret, or I'll not have the heart to say it again."

She nodded, biting her lower lip.

"When we are together, whether it is tonight or tomorrow or ten Sundays from now, I wish it to be because you are ready and under no other circumstances."

"I would think no less." She paused, at length as blood rushed to her cheeks. "But please know that I would never have shirked my duty. I also would not have you think me so passionless."

He paused, as if her to mirror her. Then, her surprise and vexation, a fox-like grin parted his mouth. Nothing could possibly could move him to humor under the circumstances.

"I know you, Margaret Thornton,” he said, wrapping his arms tighter around her waist, “to show passion in almost everything you do."

Though her head was still half lowered, she cracked a most master-of-Marlborough Mills-like smirk, hoping he might see it. 

"Except for dancing, of course."

He chuckled heartily. "No, never that."

Just as Margaret began to settle into his warmth, he tensed. She straightened, their moment of intimacy gone. 

"What is it, John?" His slightly guilty look did nothing to relieve the nervousness inching back up her spine. 

"Considering your condition last night, and that we would be otherwise engaged this morning, this is Mother's last morning as hostess of Marlborough Mills."

“I appreciate her thoughtfulness.” It was true. After yesterday, Margaret could not fathom jumping straight into domestic responsibilities.

“The Watsons are to dine with us as well.”

“The Watsons?”

John shook his head sardonically. “You were not the only person indisposed last night. Thankfully, Jane put Fanny to bed in the guest room before she made a laughingstock of us all.” 

"Thankfully indeed."

Privately, it was the last news Margaret wished to hear. Fanny had been irksome enough yesterday, and the very idea of spending more time with her was intolerable. The prospect of dining with Mrs. Thornton was downright insufferable. Their interactions had been conspicuously infrequent the evening before, if only to keep up appearances. There was little doubt that for every insult Margaret had been spared yesterday, there would be two awaiting her today.

John was already frowning, as though she had spoken her fears aloud.

“I know that had you married someone else, we would have the house to ourselves. I understand that is a sacrifice you have willingly made."

"It is no sacrifice," she assured, hoping the admission would not sound as forced as it was.

He eyed her with mild disbelief, but continued. "Many months ago I had asked both Mother and Fanny to befriend you. While I know you’ve not seen eye-to-eye on many a matter, I would very much like for you all to get along."

Margaret offered a polite smile, not trusting herself to disguise her reaction if she spoke. There was not much she could refuse him when he looked at her with such vulnerability that he showed no one else.

 _No one except the_ other _Mrs. Thornton,_ a nagging voice in her head reminded.

"I doubt Fanny will be ready anytime soon.” John surveyed the empty hallway as if to confirm his assumption. “Nevertheless, Mother will likely expect us within the half hour."

"I shall be ready by then." Margaret manufactured the most pleasant expression she could. 

His reciprocated smile, she thought with some abashment, was nothing less than genuine. "I will tell Jane to have our places set." 

He bowed, his shoulders relaxing as though the world’s problems had melted away. The door shut behind him almost soundlessly.

With a pent up heave of her chest, Margaret eyed the washbasin. At least it would only be an hour and not an entire day, she consoled herself.

As she pulled on a fresh camisole some minutes later, she barely noticed Jane breezing in to fetch her garments and the linens. She was similarly unaware when the young woman scurried out almost as soon as she had entered.

* * *

“For heaven's sake, Jane! Where is that cold pack?”

Fanny raked her knuckles over her forehead as Margaret occupied herself with her fried potatoes. To her amusement, Mr. Watson was doing the same—several portions over.

Hannah eyed Fanny for only a moment before returning to her meal. Margaret watched discreetly as the woman took bird-like bites of cake, as she did whenever she ate. The sickly yellow-green light of the sky filtered in from the nearby window, doing little to soften the deepening lines at the corners of her mouth.

A worried Jane scuttled in and handed Fanny a small compress wrapped in cloth, only to be swatted at like a pesky fly. The young woman slackened back in her chair in relief.

“I must say,” she commented, making a great show of wincing as she applied pressure to her right eyebrow. “It was quite the celebration, even if there was not nearly so much champagne as at _our_ wedding.”

John’s knife scraped his toast loudly. “I am glad it met your expectations, Fanny, especially as you are so discerning in your indulgences.” 

His sister opened one eye like a disgruntled owl, scrabbling to right the compress that was now pitifully lopsided. Margaret forced herself not to look at John else she might burst into laughter.

Watson side-eyed his wife with the expertise of a man schooled in diplomacy and the regret of one unwillingly parted from his potatoes. “I say, Thornton, it was a rare showing. I think we saw every master from Milton to Devonshire.” He wheezed out a half-chuckle, half-cough as he cut into his puddings with gusto. “No doubt all wanting to get a piece of you.”

Quietly alarmed, Margaret tried to mind her plate. She prayed he was talking about Slickson rather than Everhart—whom she had pleasantly put out of her mind again until now.

The instant drain of John’s smile betrayed what was likely a similar thought. “Slickson was the worst of them, actually.”

“Surely Watson was not referring to Slickson, John.” Fanny sniffed, jabbing at her cold eggs as John regarded her. 

“I saw that Everhart poking about,” she continued coyly, “as did half the room, to be sure.”

Margaret’s fork scratched the plate. With no small effort, she refrained from dignifying the pernicious gaze she felt upon her—one originating distinctly from Mrs. Thornton’s direction. 

Fanny waved a dramatic hand, plunking the pack down on the table now that she’d secured everyone’s attention. “He looked such a ruffian in those trousers. And that jacket was from five years ago, at least!” She shook her head self-righteously. “And never mind what money he might have given us, I still do not see why he was—“

This time, the look Hannah shot Fanny was one of undeniable condescension. An unbearable minute later and Watson’s vociferous chewing was still the only sound puncturing the silence.

Hannah and John locked eyes before the old woman shoved her half-eaten plate away.

“I understand you and Fanny are to leave for London today, Mr. Watson.” 

Watson dabbed at his mouth hurriedly, making little progress with the smear of egg on his lower lip. “Forthwith, Mrs. Thornton. We are off on the train in not two hours, in fact.” He nodded sheepishly at Margaret and then at John. “I fear we have already too long imposed on your hospitality.”

Fanny groaned in oblivious protest, clutching her fork as though it were a harpoon. “Nonsense. I’ve barely had a bite of my scone! And _Mother_ enjoys my company, at least.” She huffed, searching the room in vain for sympathy. “I do not see why we could not have caught the later train.”

“Dearest, you know I meet with Mr. Tomlinson at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow. And I am sure that Mrs. Thornton and Mr. Thornton would appreciate some time before their own trip.” 

“You are, of course, most welcome to stay as long as you like, Mr. Watson,” Hannah interjected. Margaret looked up to see what she read to be a challenging expression on her face.

“Why certainly, Mr. Watson—Fanny.” Margaret acknowledged them both, again evading Hannah's gaze from the corner of her eye. “Please do not leave on our account.”

Watson nodded before darting a pleading glance at Fanny. “No, Mrs. Thornton," he replied, turning his eyes again to Margaret. "I thank you, but I insist. We mustn’t tarry a moment longer.” His chair screeched on the floor as he tottered upward to assist his wife.

“Such a stick in the mud,” Fanny groused, not quite under her breath. Watson narrowly dodged a stubbed toe as his wife, now remarkably recovered, abruptly rose of her own accord.

The inhabitants of Marlborough Mills bid the Watsons goodbye, Margaret doing so with well-disguised disappointment. Regardless of Fanny’s rudeness, their departure made direct interaction with Hannah all but unavoidable.

"I must say it is good to see you well again, Margaret," the old woman said as the three Thorntons sat back down at the table. 

Margaret sputtered before downing a sip of water to wash down some dry toast. She peeked over the rim of the glass as John raised an eyebrow at her, equal parts concerned and questioning.

"I trust the weather will be pleasant on your journey," Hannah continued, unmoved by her daughter-in-law's obvious struggle.

Determined to croak out a reply, Margaret put a hand to her throat. “I believe it shall be. My brother and Captain Lennox have assured us that the seas are most passable at this time of year." 

The old woman’s fingers spindled on the table as she weighed the answer. "No doubt you cannot wait to escape Milton's chill."

For the second time today, John's lips parted only to close and say nothing.

Thankfully, the bustle of servants clearing away the dishes ended what promised to be the first stretch of awkward quiet since Fanny and Watson had departed. While Hannah was otherwise occupied scolding a servant, Margaret tried to catch John's eye. He now seemed obsessed with the pattern of the tablecloth, though his crestfallen demeanor suggested otherwise. Mending the strained relationship between the two women would take more than a single breakfast. She silently rejoiced as he placed his utensils over an unbuttered piece of toast.

"Mother, if you do not mind, I think Margaret and I might walk the gardens." Margaret followed John's prompting gaze. The sky in the window behind him was already striping with slate-colored bands of cloud. 

"There's going to be a storm later."

Hannah beamed with rare affection as she addressed her son. "Of course. I trust you'll be back well in time for afternoon tea."

"I doubt the weather will hold for even the hour, Mother.” John stood, smoothing imaginary creases in his trousers. “We both thank you for the breakfast."

"Yes, thank you. It was lovely," Margaret added, trying not to rise with undue exuberance.

She bowed her head, her giddiness mounting as she walked feet behind her husband. No sooner had her hem brushed past the last chair before the entryway when cool fingers grasped the crook of her arm.

"I'd like a word, Margaret.” 

Margaret's and John's eyes met, exchanging their resigned agreement.

"A word," John repeated, staring straight at his mother.

“Certainly, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret interjected, grateful for her husband's intervention. She silently counted each of his steps until the door clicked shut.

Hannah was already pacing, circling like a ravenous crow. She stopped with sudden purpose, gripping a chair rail as though she meant to wring the life from it.

“I will get right to the point," she said tartly. "I was told that the linens did not need changing this morning."

Crimson blazed on Margaret's cheeks, as much from anger as yet another foolish blunder. Remembering Jane’s insistent feet clopping away, there was no doubting how Hannah had this information. 

Though her skin was still hot, Margaret's reply was cold. There was little excuse for being accosted by such an inquiry, whatever its intent.

"I did not think our activities were to be so closely monitored.”

"I’ve no interest in meddling in your marriage bed." Hannah's head jerked as if to dispel the disturbing idea she might have conjured for herself. "But," she warned, her accent lengthening the word, "It concerns me greatly that you have not been able—or willing—to fulfill your duties as a wife." 

_To the point, indeed._

"It was the corset, Mrs. Thornton,” Margaret responded in a measured tone. “It was tied far too tight and I felt a bit faint. I take full responsibility for my condition."

"Which condition, exactly?” Hannah’s lips snaked with disapproval. “Though it appears my son did not, I saw you last night."

“I beg your pardon?"

"You know well what I am talking about—and who I am talking about. I do not have to tell you that it is unseemly for you to be seen sitting so close to a man who is not your husband. Indeed, I had never understood why you'd refused my son after your exhibition during the strike." 

“Though I think,” Hannah finished, her black taffeta swishing with purpose, “I now might have an idea."

Margaret's mouth formed a small 'o,' her legs barely supporting her. She could not deny that Hannah's reproach echoed her own thoughts earlier that morning. Neither could she deny how Everhart’s lover-like gestures must have appeared in a low-lit corner of the room. It was a crude portrait of her and that horrible man, no matter how much she had wanted to rebuff him. In spite of all of it, it somehow did not make admitting to her mother-in-law her blame, even for the smallest transgressions, any easier.

With the last of her reserves, she drew in a calming breath. She could still be civil, without giving Mrs. Thornton the satisfaction of taking her bait. "And I think—"

"Think all you like," Hannah cut in, "but I know what I saw with my own two eyes."

"Seeing is not everything, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret felt as though steam were about to pour from her ears as Hannah's expression softened, her eyes falling on John waiting outside.

"My son still regards you as a good and constant woman, Margaret. I would hate to see any...impropriety lower him from his esteemed position in this town.” Hannah paused, chin raised haughtily as she drew herself erect.

“And I would hate all the more for you to break his heart."

 _And there we have it,_ Margaret thought, chagrin roiling within her. 

Through the window, Margaret regarded what appeared to be John’s increasingly pensive expression. She resolved to answer with as much equanimity as possible. _Some_ equanimity, at least.

"Mrs. Thornton, I will say for the last time that I am unaware of your implication. If you are referring to whomever it was that visited, that...” Margaret paused, almost triumphant that she’d temporarily forgotten his name. “...that Mr. Everhart, I know nothing of the man. I also did nothing I was ashamed of, save for donning that ridiculous corset _your_ daughter insisted upon.”

A cryptic discomposure interrupted Mrs. Thornton’s glowering. Whatever had caused it likely had no bearing on the growing ferocity of protectiveness glinting in her eyes.

"I would not want to imagine what my John must think of you.”

"I’ve no need to imagine anything," Margaret snapped. "He was concerned only about my condition and if he saw anything, he did not speak of it. In addition to being a gentleman, he is always exceptionally considerate.”

Sinful thought it was, Margaret reveled at Hannah’s chastened expression. If the old crow was determined to provoke her, she would reap what she sowed.

"I believe also," she added softly, "that he is _my_ John now."

The crease between the old woman's eyebrows deepened as her shoulders slumped. Such a quietly visceral reaction sent the briefest pang of regret through Margaret. She was debating an offer of comfort, spite and all, when the old woman clasped her bony hands together, her brow returning to its usual domineering height.

"My son’s concern, or his foolish willfulness to ignore your inappropriate behavior, has no bearing on your actions, or how they appeared." The elder Mrs. Thornton inhaled sharply, as if to underscore the importance of her forthcoming wisdom. "I am sure the servants saw. Some of whom, as you know too well, quite easily get the wrong impression.”

Seething clarity washed over Margaret as Hannah's sneer curled. Hannah had long known the truth of the night at Outwood Station. John had never brought it up again, wanting to spare them the relived pain of that terrible misunderstanding. And here was his mother, so heedlessly reopening a wound that had caused such unnecessary suffering. Only she, _this_ insufferable woman, could so test her pity.

"And, as we all know," Margaret replied through her teeth, "some too freely meddle in others’ affairs.”

John's eyebrows were knitting with concern as she eyed him through the window the second time. It was more than the cue she needed to escape what had become an irreparable conversation. There was no reasoning with such pure, unadulterated spite.

"You will excuse me. We should be off before the rain."

Margaret turned on her heel, not caring to wait for whatever vicious barb might next assail her. If every day were to be like this, she would walk the whole of Milton until her feet bled.


	3. When the Day Goes Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank you enough for all of the kudos and kind words. Whew!
> 
> This chapter may seem a bit funky because it's picking up right where we left off. I didn't want to "smother" the argument between Mrs. T and Margaret in chapter 2, though.
> 
> P.S. (I had to tweak prior chapters for continuity. Not trying to make this a habit, but it's tough coming back to a story after this long and keeping it all flowing.)

They’d been walking the park for well over an hour already, Margaret estimated. She’d chosen the direction, hoping to see the season’s last verdant shrubs before their edges all browned. It was not long before she realized that not even the greenest stretch of hill could have distracted her. 

John had not inquired about her conversation with Hannah, which was just as well. Margaret had concocted a half-truth anyway, prepared to dismiss the subject as a "woman's matter." After the awkward start to the morning, she was in no hurry to supply more information than necessary. 

Though the matter of consummation had been put to rest momentarily, Hannah's attack had plunged Margaret back into tumult. It seemed that anywhere she turned, some disgrace, whether real or imagined, would follow her.

Oblivious to the sudden downgrade of the path, Margaret's toe caught a small divot, kicking up a tiny clump of wet earth. John reached for her a moment after she had already steadied herself.

"Forgive me,” he said, clumsily retracting his arms as though cursing their uselessness. “My attention was elsewhere—" He took a moment to straighten his collar, now slightly askew.

"—Though it seems that you were otherwise engaged as well.”

"Yes, I am afraid I was,” she equivocated. The shadow of scrutinizing worry on his face made Margaret all the more resolute to disclose nothing of her disastrous row with his mother.

“I was just...thinking of my family. So many months gone, but it still feels like only yesterday that we were all together as we shall never be again.”

It was only when spoken aloud that she realized how much this painful truth, one she’d tried to push aside the day of her wedding, still gnawed at her. 

“And I think no less of you for it," he finally said, his gaze drifting away from a moss-covered mausoleum. John's brow lined with the distinct aggravation it always did when the right words would not come. "I felt the absence of my father yesterday as well, though his death was many years ago.”

He turned back to her with a brightening smile meant to dispel both their sorrows. “But we will be seeing your brother in a mere two days' time. It will be impossible for you to be unhappy there."

The reminder lifted her spirits in the way she was sure he had intended. “I cannot wait for it.” 

She wondered how noticeably she was shivering as he took the liberty of securing the uppermost fastenings of her coat. A slight flush warmed her as the leather of his glove slipped against the last button, his fingers skating over her collarbone.

Joining arms again, they resumed a brisker pace home. As the acrid scent of storm drew her eye to the horizon, Margaret noticed a gentleman rushing over the hill toward Princeton. He was unremarkable, his overcoat a drab brown. The sight, so ordinary, inexplicably set her ill at ease.

She almost stopped in her tracks when she made the unpleasant association.

"You promised last night that today you would tell me about that man, Everhart.”

John’s head turned sharply, but Margaret was already determined to prevent him from twice avoiding the subject. “I should not think you have already forgotten."

"I was rather hoping you would be the one to forget." The last of his smile dissipated as he eyed a particularly dark stretch of sky. “Not that Fanny helped on that account,” he finished wryly.

Margaret's lungs burned with a slow inhalation of cold. There were so many questions she wanted to ask. There was also the memory of John's words the night before, his sneering derision of her becoming 'acquainted' with Everhart.

"He seemed quite forward," she said, having settled on something tactful.

“His upbringing left much to be desired, to be sure. In fact, he is not an Everhart at all, despite his pride in the name. His father had an affair with a gypsy woman.”

No longer distracted by flora and fauna, Margaret barely sidestepped a branch in her path. Her mind swam. Everhart had not comported himself as a Northern gentleman, to be sure. Yet she knew enough to expect that his complexion would be dark, like that of the travelers she’d seen clustered in the camps lining the railways. He should not have possessed the pale, high-boned features that had reanimated too quickly in her mind.

“She—his mother—was Romanichal,” John elaborated, somehow sensing her confusion. “Fairer than their brothers on the Continent. Farmers, most of them. It is only recently that they’ve become interested in trade.”

“But he did not comport himself as a tradesman, surely.”

John's eyebrow twitched ominously. “I told you rightly that he is not a man to be judged by appearances alone. He was the youngest, with two true born brothers before him. One died under miserable circumstances in Ireland and the other left for America some years ago, never to be heard from again. When the elder Everhart died, Thomas was the only kin left to inherit the fortune.”

She forced herself to step forward to match his gait, her mind feeling ready to burst. Intriguing as this wealth of information was, her husband was clearly avoiding the one question that needed answering.

“But I still cannot understand what compelled him to come to Marlborough Mills," she pressed. "To invite himself to a wedding celebration, no less.”

John adjusted his collar again with his free hand. It was a motion Margaret now recognized as a symptom of nervousness rather than circumspection.

“You know that my father took part in a risky venture before his death.”

“Yes."

He shook his head at Margaret's eager reply, the war over whether to speak or to repress culminating on his features. “Mr. Samuel Everhart—the father of our unwelcome guest yesterday—was the partner who betrayed him."

Margaret's heel wobbled, her present unsteadiness having nothing to do with the terrain. There was sense neither in John’s revelation, nor his reaction to it. The John Thornton she knew would never entertain a man connected to his father's downfall, however self-inflicted it was.

"I am sure," she provoked, already knowing the answer, "that you allowed Mr. Everhart to stay only because you could not in good decorum refuse him last night.” 

"Something like that."

John sighed heavily as he released her hand, striding onto the grass. Margaret clasped them together to regain warmth as she followed him onto a small overlook. She stopped where he did, his dark hair level with a churning cloud.

"That night at tea when I spoke of my father’s passing, I also told you that Mother and Fanny and I were reduced to nothing. Even years of scrimping and saving barely afforded us our first payment on Marlborough Mills.” 

“What I did not tell you," he said more quietly, "is that Mr. Bell, at the time my new landlord, informed me that a one Mr. Loveridge was willing to broker a low-interest loan in exchange for a cut of profit until the loan was repaid. A sum of ten thousand pounds.”

"Ten thousand?" Margaret repeated breathlessly.

"I was but nineteen and knew little of business. I was hesitant to sign without meeting the man, but we were already close to ruin. Mother and Bell encouraged me to accept. Not two months after the document was signed, Bell said that Mr. Loveridge was ready to meet with me.” As though coming back to himself, he again stared up at the clouds, his teeth locked menacingly.

“Loveridge, you see, was the mother’s name. Everhart used it for some of his holdings, including investments involving Mr. Bell. It was also to evade taxation—among other schemes, I am sure.”

Margaret paused, both to digest such a wealth of information and to select her words. “And I presume, the meeting did not end well once you learnt of his true identity.”

“I did walk out, if that is what you imply. Bell chased after me, swearing up and down that he had no idea the elder Everhart had a son at all.” John laughed bitterly. “At first, I thought the generosity might be the younger Everhart's restitution for the father's crime. That, however, was giving him too much benefit of the doubt.” 

“But John, you were not to blame. What other choice could you have made? You were not more than a boy.”

“I could still have made other choices." He turned with defiant conviction. "Ones I'd not have regretted.”

Despite her desire to enfold him in her arms, Margaret knew no affectionate gestures could ease his despondency. She also could not bear him shrinking from her again as though she were a leper.

A sudden lightheadedness struck Margaret as the cogs all ground into place.

“So I am to understand," she broached, "that Everhart once owned Marlborough Mills.”

“In a sense, yes.” John offered the smallest hint of a smile, his first since they’d begun unwinding this dreadful thread of conversation. “What he did not count on was Mr. Bell signing everything over to you. As much as your father’s friend and I did not agree, at least he had done that much."

“Then..." She paused, searching for the right question. "Then you mean to say that Everhart came last night to try and take stake in the mill again?” 

“No."

The flash of his eyes silenced yet another question from Margaret.

"The man is a schemer. He caught me in London at the Great Exhibition, spouting nonsense about 'furthering his investment' in cotton. Now that he is cut from the profits of our mill, I’ve no idea about his intentions.”

His choice of the word "our" swelled Margaret's heart with affection. Though he could not help the law, his name had not been added to the deed. It was a symbolic gesture, but it meant the world to Margaret. He would never forget.

If only they both could forget, she thought as her anger returned, all about this Everhart. If not her property, what _did_ he want?

The realization doused her like cold water. She'd had so many questions, she'd become distracted from another fact far more concerning. Had Everhart not come last night, she'd never have been the wiser to his schemes. Her ignorance, as much as his suppositions, had rendered her a fool.

Her head whipped round to face him.

"How could you not have told me of his role in all of this? That I essentially robbed him of his investment?"

He looked at her, stunned. "I did not want to trouble you, Margaret. I know you take an interest. You are more than capable."

“If you esteemed me so greatly, there would be no reason to withhold something so significant.”

"Please," he begged, grinding out what sounded like the last of his patience. "Please believe me that I did not omit to deceive you."

"Well, if not to deceive me, then why? To protect me?"

“Yes!" he growled. "It was in the hope that neither of us would have to utter his name again." John threw his hands up in despair. "That I’d not have to think of those days or of my father's disgrace again.”

If those words had not extinguished the fire of contempt in Margaret's breast, the sight of him would have. His doleful eyes could have been her own as she looked in the glass on the day her own father had passed. She heard it low in her consciousness, her confession to Everhart. She had not wanted to think of those first days in Milton, to feel that stale sorrow. It only stood to reason that her husband felt the same.

Taking his hand, Margaret raised his palm to her lips. He looked at her with the same gratitude and astonishment he had the day they rode home together—when she had kissed his flesh that way once before.

“You know better than anyone that I can withstand my share of troubles, John. There is nothing you cannot tell me.”

Though he smiled with gratitude, a strange, faraway look brewed in his eyes. “And I might say the same to you.”

A resounding clap of thunder echoed across the valley, ending any further discussion. Deep in their own thoughts, they hurried down the path winding into Milton. As Margaret’s heels clicked on the first worn cobblestones inside Marlborough Mills' gate, she saw a plump, ruddy figure bustling toward them. Panic squeezed her heart as she realized it was Dixon.

"Mrs. Margaret! Oh, thank heaven!" The woman clutched a letter in her left hand, waving her arm wildly.

"Whatever is the matter?" Margaret put a consoling a hand to her arm.

"I do not know how to tell you." Dixon swallowed at what Margaret knew was the frustrated prompting she'd seen in her eyes.

"It's Master Frederick. He's written saying that you and Master Thornton musn’t set sail for Cadiz. There's been an outbreak and—"

"The letter now, Dixon." 

Never skilled at hiding emotion, there was no mistaking Dixon's flinch for the hurt it was. Though she was still a servant, the suffering of these past two years had eroded the rigid strictures that had so long kept them apart. Margaret also knew well, however much it once irked her, that Frederick was Dixon's favorite.

"I am sorry," Margaret said softly. "I did not mean to sound cross." 

"Oh, never you mind, missus." The old woman sniffed only once as she thrust the letter into her mistress's hands.

Margaret read it intently for a few moments, only to consume the words repeatedly in disbelief as if rereading them might change their terrible meaning.

******

_26 September, 1852_

_Dearest Margaret,_

_I must apologize for the brevity of this letter, as necessity rather than sentiment compels me to write it._

_It is heartache enough that Dolores and I could not attend your wedding. You must know it pains me beyond words that I, your closest living kin, could not be there in our parents' stead to see you married._

_Our present sadness to report is that yellow fever has already claimed two-hundred souls here in Cadiz. As of today we are quarantined, so we are unable to leave to see you, even if we would dare do so under normal circumstances. I know not when you and Mr Thornton will be permitted entrance through the port._

_Please pray for us that this shall pass soon and that we are not afflicted. I will write again once it is safe for you to travel._

_Stay warm in the North. The sun of Cadiz waits for you both._

_Your loving and faithful brother,  
Fred_

******

Margaret let the paper go limp in her falling hand. The letter was written days ago. There would be no way of knowing for certain if Frederick or Dolores were well—or even alive.

She had no wherewithal to protest as John took the note from her grasp. He scanned deliberately, as Margaret had seen him do the few times she’d witnessed him looking over his ledgers. What hope she held sank with the worry in his eyes.

"I shall see what can be done," he said, as much to himself as to the women. "Tell Mother that I will try to return before supper."

Not waiting for her to protest, he kissed Margaret's forehead and was off.

She watched numbly as John bolted toward the gate, the sky threatening to open behind him. Dixon cushioned Margaret in an embrace, ushering her mistress inside as the first drops of rain splattered around them. 

* * *

They had eaten dinner in silence. To his shame, John had welcomed it far too much. 

He had indeed returned just before supper, drenched and exhausted. True to his promise, he'd tried to contact every acquaintance from Milton to Portsmouth in the hope of some good news from Spain. He'd even enlisted one of Slickson’s connections, fruitless an endeavor as it would likely be. Despite John's hope, every response was the same: Cadiz's port was closed indefinitely. Courtesy of his position as magistrate, he had expedited a reply to Frederick that they had received his letter. It was, with both disappointment and irritation, the only material achievement to show for his efforts.

The day's events and revelations had already weighted his heart when Margaret had announced she'd retire early. For a moment, he contemplated rising to follow. He'd every mind to take her into his arms, to embrace her without a care for his mother or the servants. It would be a silent apology that could not be misconstrued.

Instead, as he saw that despondent dip of her graceful shoulders, John's optimism had finally broken. After a gruff rejoinder that he would be along shortly, he'd settled into his study. When he looked at his watch, he'd already spent half an hour there, his shallow fortification of brandy undisturbed. He'd apparently accomplished nothing but staring at the embers and doubting himself in every way possible. It was a long, slow trudge up the stairs.

Now, here he was staring at the door. The northern man in him abhorred avoidance. Likewise, fear could not easily unman him. Yet now, as he loitered in the room next to his wife, thoughts of that morning competed with the stir of irrational, impending happiness. He could almost taste the softness of her lips, could feel the shuddering warmth of her chest beneath her dressing gown. That heavy-lashed gaze as she'd spoken her halting words in his bed chamber ( _their_ bedchamber) had intoxicated him for all its innocence. Even in broad daylight, his hands had tingled with anticipation to mold himself to her curves, to...

He sighed, raking his hands through his hair. Losing control was a northern man's greatest sin. As such, he'd never been inclined to reveal his innermost thoughts. That indignant flickering in her eyes when he'd first offered his heart was still embedded too deep in his memory. Even the day she'd come home with him, he had kissed her with tender deliberation. Any rawer expression of passion was sure to offend.

Studying the most erudite philosophies could not compare to the taxing frustration of not speaking so coarsely. That, perhaps, was his most grievous sin.

Too long had he admired her fire and beauty without conveying the depth of his regard in the words worthy of such a woman.

Indeed, he thought bitterly, others had been quicker to act. Bell'd all but flaunted his interest. Worse was that prig Knox and his 'London break'....and last night...

His ire has been unspeakable. He'd wrangled himself away from Slickson only to see _that_ conniving bastard placing a flower in her hair. It taken everything not to hoist the devil up by his collar and toss him to the street as soon as he'd said hello.

It had taken near as much restraint for John to say naught of her behavior. With mesmerized rage he'd watched her flush under Everhart's hand. It was that same subtle response: that sensuous brush of rose to her cheeks, that bewildered glassing of her eyes as when he'd held her on the train. That golden day when he'd selfishly forgotten himself.

The sight of them together had plunged his soul into a familiar blackness. It ushered back that midnight chill; the feeling of his lungs being torn from his chest. For all its irrationality, he'd glimpsed her again in that imaginary lover's arms at Outwood Station. Again, for a moment, he'd let envy consume him until ledgers and figures had blurred to white. To think of another man touching her—making her his.

And then, he'd remembered. How, with a single revelation from Higgins, his jealousy had been for nothing.

It was a lesson well learnt in objectivity, in restraint. What, indeed, had she done on that chaise with Everhart? Her physical discomfort last night had been plain, her limited capacity for lying notwithstanding. There was never affectation in her grace and dignity. Those qualities put her on a pedestal of light, far above the Ann Latimers of the world.

With this in mind, he rose from his chair, his focus trained on the oak door separating them. As he strode toward it, he swore silently to speak and to act ever the gentleman. It was his chance to prove to her, to himself, that he might be worthy of such a woman. 

Any Henry Lennox or Mr. Bell or Thomas Everhart could possess her.

Only he could love her.

* * *

Margaret flinched as her comb snagged an obstinate curl. A torrent of rain undulated with a hiss against the windowpane, drawing her gaze away from the mirror. The brine and sand tomorrow once promised now seemed worlds away.

The evening had been quiet and uncomfortable, as though misfortune itself had thickened the air. Whenever Margaret had dared a glance at him across the table, John's stare was vacant. Her head heavy, she had excused herself after the sweet course. It had stung more than a little when she heard no footsteps following her own.

Mrs. Thornton's silence was, as always, an oppressive entity unto itself. It could have been, Margaret hoped somewhat unreasonably, an unspoken admission of wrongdoing for this morning. More likely, it was some sliver of sympathy for their plight. Either way, it mattered little to Margaret. She'd no energy at present to deal with such trivialities.

After placing the comb down with a shaking hand, she smoothed her finger over the beveled ridges on the corner of her vanity. Her reflection was wan, her eyes wistful with smears of exhaustion beneath them. She looked more a wife of twenty years than a new bride.

_Was every day to be this difficult?_

A resolute knock resounded from the door adjoining her chamber and John's.

The candle was already at half-wick, long after he should have joined her. In her bed.

Even more than she had that morning, she fretted now at her woeful lack of preparation. She’d once caught Edith's servants whispering of how a wife should demur to her husband. By their giggling accounts, the act sounded utterly invasive and unpleasant. Margaret gripped the chair's arm tighter, imagining herself under the sheets with John's weight oppressing her as they had described.

It brought nothing to mind like her pleasurable imaginings of the night before.

She rose to her feet, defiant of her fear and waning control. _I am a clergyman's daughter_ , she silently declared. As John's wife, she would fulfill her duty as expected—and without ridiculous impulses overtaking her good sense.

Margaret smoothed her fingers through her hair a final time, conceding that naught could be done for it. She wrapped her dressing gown around her as she padded across the floor. For the second time today, she opened the door to confront him.

She caught the fleeting surprise in his eyes as she resisted the compulsion to avert hers. 

John's hair had split in feral directions as though his fingers had razed it repeatedly. She wanted to look at it, so curiously mussed and out of place. But she found herself too distracted by an expression she'd never before seen from this reserved man.

He was so animated it was startling. His eyes sparkled with something almost like reverence, as one might behold a master's painting rather than a person. This was the first time he had seen her hair down, she realized uncomfortably.

As though entranced, he twirled his finger around one of her curls. "I wish you could wear it like this."

She drew in a sharp breath when he withdrew his hand too quickly, his finger almost tangling in a snarl she’d missed when brushing. He straightened, collecting himself.

"I trust I can come in then?" 

"Yes, of course,” She backed away from the door, permitting him entrance. As he moved, her eyes drifted to the candlelit skin of his chest peeking out over his neckline. There was a scant hint of dark hair there. She wondered, heat rising in her cheeks, whether it would feel soft or coarse beneath her fingers.

"I wanted to do more for Frederick," he began.

“You musn’t apologize, John. You did everything you should have, and more.”

He swallowed, wrenching his head away as though his eyes had not landed where they intended. A strange heat brushed upward from knee to thigh as Margaret followed his gaze downward. Her shift had fallen askance, the candlelight illuminating the outline of her arm through the fabric. Realizing that the rest of her silhouette would be just as discernible, she yanked her nightdress closer.

With a hint of remaining hesitation he reached for her, his features illuminating as his arms encircled her. Something about the way he was looking at her made everything stand still.

"I know that much has happened today, Margaret. I cannot imagine how you must feel.”

Even if she wanted to deny him now, she was powerless to move. His every word vibrated through her, each syllable tightening that invisible cord between them. 

“As I said this morning, I would never insist of you anything you did not wish," he said firmly. "If you wish for me to walk back through that doorway, I will understand completely.” 

A breath puffed from her lips in reply, but she could not feel her chest move. All she could imagine was feeling those hands that were resting timidly upon her, the span of them broad and warm, touching and exploring.

There was no giving voice to this feeling, frightening and exhilarating at once. There was want and love in his eyes in equal measure, enough for her to drown in. It was also, she reasoned, seldom that she did what she should.

"Stay," she said. Too late she realized that she had run her tongue over her lip.

It was the only invitation he needed before he surged forward with brutal need. When his lips claimed her at last, it was with a kiss that none other—real or imagined—could have compared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.P.S...Most historical elements of my story will be well-researched, but I haven't agonized over them. The stuff about the Roma should be reasonably accurate, though I'm being a bit "fluid" with some of my facts. Sorry if my ignorance offends. Also, I'm about 60 percent positive that the loan I described only happens on Shark Tank...


	4. Truly a Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, my lovely readers. Sound the smut bells!
> 
> Not going to lie: I agonized over this chapter. Writing first-time, for me, is _way_ harder than the established kink or crazy hate sex.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this "vanilla swirl" of sexy times, as it were. More on the way very soon.
> 
> <3  
> HRM

Margaret did not remember crossing the room, how the cold planks must have felt under her feet. One moment she was still standing, her heart pressed to his. The next, the room was tilting as he eased her down upon the mattress. 

Her breath hitched as he reached down where her nightdress pooled, parting her thighs gently just above the knee. She nestled into his shoulder, into the scents of rich wood and cotton that were his. Her body did not yet know how to respond to this feeling of a man firm against her. The need to rub against him licked at her like a quivering flame.

He rendered her breathless, devouring her. When she thought he might part from her, his lips would coax hers open again with desperate strokes of his tongue. At last she dared a few timid, darting motions of her own. He stole a ragged breath of surprise before kissing her even deeper, his hoarse groan of appreciation humming through her. 

His hand idled above her waist, as though he did not know where first to touch. John drew a breathy sigh from her as he decided, his thumb tracing the crescent shadow beneath her breast. They both shuddered with pleasure as his hand curved, cupping and molding her to the rough of his palm.

A frisson of panic shot through Margaret as his other hand inched lower on her abdomen, his pupils shot wide and dark. He needed only to pull aside her hem to discover the curious wetness that had quietly formed between her legs. She exhaled slowly when he rounded over her hip instead, trailing slow, hot lines up and down her outer thighs.

Margaret gasped as he broke the kiss only to graze the delicate flesh of her neck with the tip of his tongue. It was wet heat and then stark cold, her body thrilling at the extremes. She stilled as his fingertips brushed the tie of her nightdress, tantalizing the upper swells of her breasts. It was still too much for her to think of being naked before him. 

Their eyes met long enough for her to see the question in his eyes before he looked away. Margaret flushed everywhere when she saw what had distracted him. Her nipples, pink and thoroughly teased by the cold and his attentions, were peaking up through the fabric. She shifted uncomfortably, not considering how the nightdress might slouch as she moved. The neckline had indeed drooped perilously, revealing the valley between her breasts. With a groan of approval, he kissed this place with as much ardor as he had the others. Margaret arched upward, his stubble scraping, her thighs clenching around his.

John's arms wavered as he lowered his head. Her breath stalled, her neck tilting and curving as he laved her nipple over the cloth. His taut lips circled as he sucked her straight through the nearly transparent fabric. Margaret's gasps had settled to breathy sighs by the time he again willed himself to part from her shaking body.

"I need to see all of you," he rasped.

Through her haze she smiled, his words driving her to boldness. 

“You first, Mr Thornton.”

His surprise only empowered Margaret to more hastily divest him of his shirt. Her grip was damp as she fumbled for his hem, her knuckles skimming over the muscled angle cutting from his hip to inner thigh. She had almost succeeded in her mission when the fabric bunched at his neck. Doubt rippled deeper through Margaret’s confidence, her embarrassment deepening with every second he scrutinized her. At last and with a knowing smirk, he yanked the cotton over his head before tossing it to the floor in a careless heap. 

Until this moment, she had been grateful for the concealment of waning firelight. Now it taunted her, teasing at the shadowed ridges of his biceps and abdomen. Margaret's trembling hands braced his chest, the uncertainty of where to touch now a feeling she understood. A smile almost sprang to her lips as her fingertip traced the central line of dark hair matted with sweat. It _was_ somehow coarse yet soft. 

Her fingertips dug deep into his shoulder blades, savoring the flexion as he shifted. She could only speculate whether the skin she'd not yet touched was the same as it was here, somewhere between silk and sun-warmed marble.

Her hands traversed ribs and spine until she reached curious indentations above his backside. Her fingertips danced over them, her mind toying with the urge to clutch the the swell of pure muscle below, bringing him closer to those places that throbbed to be stroked and filled.

John’s eyes glinted with unabashed amusement.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage, madam.”

Margaret paled and flushed in succession, willing her traitorous hands to her sides. John sobered for a moment before his mouth drew to a determined line. He shifted pressure to his knees, his hands wrapping around both her wrists, gently pulling them to where they'd been. 

“You can touch me.” His eyes flitted down to her neckline, surveying the undisturbed bow of her nightdress with regret. “Please let me feel.”

She did not protest as he unwound the knot, his fingers slipping more than once. The only sound in the room was her stilted exhalation as the fabric slid over her hips, sending a shock of cold against the wetness of his kisses and her desire.

Her eyelids fluttered as the lace hem dusted past her ankles. Never in her life, save for her bath, had she been so exposed.

The scarlet flush on her chest spread in all directions as John's neck inclined. John drank her in with agonizing scrutiny, his eyes lingering where that slow, crawling heat was becoming a beating pulse. 

He traced encouragingly up her inner thigh, his inhalations audible as he began kissing his way down her abdomen. When he stopped to reposition his arm, her hips pivoted with instinctive frustration, grinding against his trousers until they lowered on his hips. 

John retaliated with a desperate thrust into the cradle of her hips, the cloth against Margaret's bare skin triggering a whole new avalanche of sensation. She was still marveling at the delicious friction when he stopped abruptly. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw the color that had risen on his cheekbones. A rich scarlet bloomed on her own face as she realized what she was feeling. The length of him was hard beneath his trousers, against her arousal already slickening the cloth.

Margaret's mind raged between embarrassment and possibility. He could take her now as she imagined a gentleman would, patient and tender as she submitted to him. He could also possess her with a reckless abandon as she, in her own way, could him. It shamed her to not know which she wanted.

All she knew was that it was _her_ body that had made him respond in such a way. It was suddenly all that mattered.

John's mouth bowed into a crooked smile at what she presumed was her expectant expression. He wasted no time unfastening his buttons, the metal popping through loops before he tossed his trousers to the foot of the bed. He draped a sheet closer over their lower halves, though Margaret could still see the enticing contours of him through the cotton. Summoning her bravery, she ran her hands over his back, her fingers flexed up against the sheet, until her palms curved around his backside. 

Her senses were too inundated to remember what he would find when he reached down to guide himself between her folds. He bit back a sound as the tip of him pressed into her wetness. Part of her wanted to leap from the bed with humiliation, her wantonness exposed. The other part, with her hands warm against him, needed him more deeply, for whatever pain it brought.

Just before the last tether to her willpower snapped, he finally spoke.

"I cannot know your pain myself.” He swallowed, a hint of remorse thickening the timber of his voice. “But I swear to you I will stop if you ask it. Promise that you will not be silent."

Margaret said nothing, his words echoing far away. Everything before this moment had been quite the opposite of painful. She wanted to respond with more than polite assent, to assure him that every touch, no matter how impassioned, would be wanted. The bold admission caught in her throat.

"I promise," she whispered instead.

Guided by his shaking arm, she secured her fingers around his sweat-dampened hairline. He looked at her, his gaze black and bottomless, before entering her with a hiss of pleasure.

She almost lost her hold on him. It was an indescribable invasion—a perfect, stinging fullness. The promise she’d just made to him was not worth keeping.

John silenced himself with a labored kiss. Her nails rented the back of his neck where she still clung as he glided out and in again. She sighed with each sharp entry and again as he withdrew. His kisses, which she attempted to reciprocate in vain, were becoming clumsier despite his steadying rhythm. Margaret's discomfort faded for a moment as he rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb.

With his hand there, with each insistent thrust, pleasure wound its golden tendrils deeper within her. She cried out as he shifted her beneath him. The new angle ignited a place just above where they were joined. When he bucked inside her again, a white-hot shock radiated from it.

Her hips jutted up and out, the force of John's replying thrust scraping the headboard against the wall. His teeth bared with arousal as he raised a distracted arm to still it. He was panting, repeating the same refrain of syllables as his controlled pace began to stutter.

It was only when he plunged impossibly deep that she felt herself begin to clench tighter around him. He was touching something so perfect she needed to scream. Just as she tried to repeat it, John's arms buckled beside her. Her hair muffled his cry as he pinned her hips under his, a flow of warmth rushing into her. It was a minute before his thrusts slowed, the last of them marked by lazy moans of bliss.

He said nothing after kissing her forehead tenderly and rolling away. The torturous silence only made Margaret more aware of the the dull throbbing and the cooling dampness where she had just become his. Twisting her neck a bit uncomfortably, she saw that his hands were now clasped behind his head. 

"John...have I done something wrong?" 

He pushed himself upward against the headboard, laughing with a profuse shake of his head. "No, no…" She had never heard him so breathless. 

"I believe I underestimated you while overestimating myself." He reached out to cradle her face in his palm. 

"Then I do not understand,” she replied with an edge of vexation. “You look as though I have displeased you." 

"You have given me the greatest pleasure, Margaret.” He met her gaze partly before staring up at the ceiling. "I had hoped I could bring you such pleasure as well."

She eyed him with all the perplexity his words had wrought. From all she had heard about such things, she presumed she had already experienced it. Her heart sank, sure she was either defective or wretched for wanting more.

"I do not understand, John,” Margaret contested. “I believe I have felt it."

His lips opened with the ghost of a laugh only to stop himself. "There is only one way to find out."

Margaret was still searching for a chaste reply as John crawled atop her, whipping away the rumpled sheet she was now clutching. A boyish look—one she was sure no one ever seen on the master of Marlborough Mills—was plastered on his face. 

With newfound intention, he kissed and licked her from jaw to hip until she was spread wide before him. Margaret again blushed at him, staring straight at that sensitive place between her legs that had seemingly bewitched him. She was torn between panic and lust as the pad of his finger rubbed against her entrance and over the slick folds around it. His finger dipped again, its direction obvious.

"My Margaret," she thought she heard him say.

Her head melted into the pillow, her mouth forming a soundless cry as his finger eased inside her. She waited through the residual soreness, holding onto that unmistakable feeling of pleasure. It was duller, but absent the pain she felt as her body had accommodated his. _This. More._ was all she could think.

Margaret's fist balled the already wrinkled sheet as John's finger pumped in and out of her sex. Without thinking, she pulled at his raven hair, pressing his overworked mouth to her breast. She felt that familiar gibbous smile curling against her before he obliged her fully. His tongue flicked in tandem with his other ministrations, ensuring that she was never for a second without pleasure where most she craved it.

Her hips rolled with each burst of sensation, lost to the heat of his mouth and the way her muscles were beginning to clench again. Her mind willed her body to climb higher, though somehow she knew it would not.

She stilled at the thought of being trapped in this state forever. Though it was not her intent, John sensed it, looking up immediately. His mouth opened ever so slightly, leaving her unsure what he'd read in her expression. 

His eyes were still on hers as his thumb glossed over a bud of flesh below her mound. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes with a cry was the glitter of satisfaction in his. She reveled in it and in this feeling, indescribable as it was. It was as if she was being pulled tight, just there, and that every feeling he had stirred with his body and hands and mouth was magnified in this tiny place. Her throat squeaked out a noise when he repeated the motion. 

When she opened her eyes, the planes of his face had become hidden in semi-darkness. A second finger curled inside her. 

His thumb pressed and teased as Margaret keened, thrusting against his hand. Streams of color undulated behind her eyes as she became weightless. It took only one final press on that tiny peaking center before everything clenched and burst at once. She rode through each delicious spasm, the depth of his kiss sealing over her cry. He rocked her against him through every wave of pleasure until the lightest pressure became too much.

A tear she did not realize she'd shed trailed down her cheek as she slumped from his arms onto the mattress. When her senses fully returned, so did the awareness of her sounds before he had so pleasurably kissed them silent. They seemed to have rung against the very rafters.

"Oh, John..."

He stroked the skin of her shoulder, as though studying every inch. "If you are intent on apologizing, do not." He brought her chin sideways to face him, ensuring she read the honesty in his expression.

"You should never be ashamed of what happens in our bed."

He kissed her again, softer this time against the bruised fullness of her lips. As though he knew his words were insufficient, he covered their bodies with the sheet again, layering a respectable barrier between them.

As Margaret huddled into the blankets, secretly elated, she felt John's mouth curl against her ear. 

"There is some good to come out of the postponement of our trip, you know." 

She turned her head, the events of the day still muddled by bliss.

“And what is that, husband?”

"We do not have to get up early tomorrow."

Margaret playfully swatted his arm, ensuring he saw her small smile in kind before nestling into the pillows. Sleep finally tugged at her eyes just as the last of the wicks were dying.  


* * *

It was not yet afternoon, the light shining on the dark cherry desk at which Margaret sat. She was grateful for the break in the chill.

Brushing the tip of the feather above her lip, she recalled everything of last night and this morning. They had awoken from their rapturous sleep to the daylight, which seemed an altogether different and harsher world. John was the first to detect the small spot of blood on the sheets well obscured in the dark. A fretful Margaret had summoned one of the servants—not Jane—to whisk away the linens. Even after breakfast, John again asked if she was well, kissing her worriedly before he rushed off to the mill. It was, to her disappointment, an hour sooner than he'd planned on leaving.

Hannah was almost as silent at breakfast as she had been the night before. Despite a rather dubious look or two, she had spared Margaret the usual jabs. Having no wish to discuss the state of the sheets, Margaret had adjourned to her room with the truthful, but convenient, excuse of writing a letter to Edith informing her of Frederick's predicament. 

For some time she had been staring at her mostly written note. The rhythmic clacking of the machines in the mill, which layers of brick did little to muffle, broke her from her thoughts. With only one sentence left to write, she scribbled out the last of her thoughts to her cousin.

*****

_3 October, 1852_

_Dear Edith,_

_First, I am so sorry that I did not get to bid you a proper goodbye after our wedding, even though you knew well of my plight. Now that a few days have passed, I can see how it should have been terribly amusing to see your "sensible" cousin brought to her knees by a corset._

_There has been some terrible news about Cadiz, though I am sure you will have already heard by the time you receive this letter. I do not know what to say other than I shan't give in to fear until we receive further news. Please pray for my dear brother and his wife that yellow fever spares them and that we may visit them at last._

_There is so much else that I wish to tell you, yet I cannot bring myself to write the words. I do not yet know what to make of this new feeling of being a wife. My dearest husband regards me with a depth of affection that continues to surprise and humble me. I know you have thought him harsh and unfeeling in the past, as I once did myself. But I now tell you, with the most honest happiness, that there is a side to him more tender than any interaction might convey. I can only hope that I meet his expectations, which I fear are fewer than those I have already placed upon myself._

_I admit my trepidation, only in the domestic sphere, to become the mistress of Marlborough Mills. (As for the expectations of certain_ others— _and I think you will know without explication of whom I speak—I doubt that I shall ever measure up.)_

_I will safe keep the rest of the conversation for when we next visit you in London._

_All my love,  
Margaret _


	5. The Weight of Cotton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait-and thank you for all the continued reviews and kudos despite the delay! Grad school is blech, but will endeavor to update as often as possible. 
> 
> This chapter--first full John POV--got VERY research-intensive. Tried not to get too carried away, so if there are blatant inaccuracies, please let me know and I will correct them. Though I don't do footnotes, (sometimes the numbers are distracting), I will try and address some obvious questions, along with a number of other things, in the end notes.
> 
> There's some medical stuff, though I tried not to be too descriptive.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one, and thanks for reading!

If the mill had exploded before his very eyes, John Thornton would still have thought himself dreaming. 

Since the day he'd glimpsed Miss Margaret Hale in that ethereal snow of cotton, he'd been entranced. For three years, a piece of his consciousness was imprisoned, watching her tramping through his mill, those eyes flashing with a censure no woman had ever given him.

At first, he had tried to dismiss her as a novelty: some insufferable southern goddess. When her tongue had lashed him, he had sworn to forget her and her baseless opinions. He had sworn it again when her fingers had brushed his at tea, soft and unaware. Then when her graceful neck had craned to look back at him from the lyceum steps. Then again when she had set him down so liberally in front of all the masters and their wives.

 _What sane man would tolerate a woman who condemned him so?_ he used to think.

He would never know exactly when his resolve began to splinter. He knew only that recalling their smallest interactions had him stumbling between wonder and resentment of it. By the time her arms clasped his neck the day of the riots, the press of her breast to his, he had been sundered apart. When she rejected his crude proposal in her parlor, he had all but shattered.

Against common sense itself, he craved her.

He loved her, with no power to stop.

He was a fool for admitting it only as he watched her stagecoach roll through the snow, her leaving him forever without so much as a glance. Even his mother, the woman who'd known him better than any other, had thought him brought low by only the mill. No one supposed that it was the prospect of a listless future without the woman he should despise, but never could. 

In every dream during those bleak days, she had tantalized him with open arms, ever beckoning as she faded. With every sway and smile, she had teased his desires into haunting demands. 

Now, against all odds, he had felt her, so completely and wholly that he feared he might break. There would be no listening to her voice without hearing those sighs as she'd come undone. Every chaste touch might forever ignite the memory of her perfect softness surrounding him. It was a heady reality that bid him still ask: _How could such a woman care for me?_

He'd every intention of conquering that self-doubt this morning. He had woken Margaret slowly, with small kisses to her forehead as she'd opened her eyes. When she stirred, the sheet falling lazily from her breasts, she had made such an innocent sound of satisfaction that it stirred him to near violent need. 

And then, as she'd sensuously curved into him, he saw that small streak of red on the sheet.

To his shame, his comment to her had been true. He _had_ overestimated himself. For all his intentions, he had been as impatient as any man.

His goodbye to Margaret after breakfast was terse, abrupt. Work had been a true excuse. What he did not say was that lingering any longer would only mean his temptation when her body, her mind, needed time. The thought of her _tolerating_ his touch was far worse than her refusing it.

He could not expect her to seek him again tonight. However much the memory of her touch pained him for its absence, he would wait. When she welcomed his embrace again, he would take his time about it.

If only his earnestness could make the day go any faster.

Striding through the side entrance, John bid curt acknowledgement to the workers filing into the warehouse. His thoughts unconsciously sped his pace until he stood before his office door. It stretched before him like a green, gaping maw.

In his current state, business was the last thing he wished to confront. _But confront it I must_ , he thought with resignation as he entered. 

Slinging his coat over the rack, he inhaled the scent of paper, his throat parching instantly. He almost flopped down onto his chair until he saw the piles of documents on the seat. It had been lately repurposed as an overflow surface for work undone. As he had every day for the past few weeks, John moved each stack back onto his desk, oldest to the left and newest to the right. 

By the time he'd finished, the temptation to walk straight back out the door was overwhelming.

When the mill had closed, a number of orders went unfinished. He'd notified his contractors only three weeks before the shutdown. It was scant time, John knew, for most to move their business elsewhere, and suppliers would be reluctant to reengage when doors again opened for business. He had even less hopes of his former hands returning.

Nothing surprised him more than when all but three contractors renegotiated after the mill had reopened. Almost all the hands on Higgins' petition were lined up in the courtyard. Once word was out that the Higgins girl was back in the kitchen, even more showed up looking for work. The only rationale for it, John had wagered, was the common gossip of his recently 'enhanced capital.'

With the mill busier than ever, taking on extra hands had been the only option—if not an ideal one. Though he resented Parliament's intervening with the Ten Hours Act, John had steadfastly complied these past five years. Other masters could call him a lickspittle, but conditions were never cramped like at Slickson’s or Hamper’s.

Of late, it was a moot point of pride. Marlborough Mills had the largest warehouse in Milton, yet workers could now scarcely move an elbow. And shorter days with fewer hands would never get the mill up to speed.

This dilemma spurred John to productivity as he dove into his ledgers. As was his habit, he would break at ten o’clock to consult with his new overlooker this past month. It was a well-anticipated distraction from the books. 

Ridiculous as it would have seemed only last year, Higgins had been the obvious replacement when Williams took seriously ill. Some workers had seen his promotion as a betrayal; others trusted him as their liaison. Whatever their perception, John had not forgotten Nicholas’ position as a committee man. As he knew too well, theirs would always be a tenuous understanding.

It was a situation complicated only by their unlikely friendship. In truth, John had resisted it less than he should have. He preferred not to dwell on why, though he sometimes did anyway. For some reason, only Nicholas’ company could half-fill the particular void of Mr. Hale’s passing. The only thing the clergyman and the upstart union ringleader had in common was that they were both unlike him.

John looked up some time later, feeling a strip of golden sunlight heating his hand. Impossibly, it was almost eleven.

As he hastily made his final entry, the inkwell ran bone dry. Reaching into his second drawer, he felt around for the smooth, heavy glass and frowned. It was the second pot this week, and there was a strong chance he’d forgotten to buy another. 

His hand almost caught in the drawer when a familiar bang sent him straight to his feet. 

Racing from his office, he made for the long corridor toward the mill floor. He was past the carding room when a young girl bounded out from around the corner, her stringy blond hair matted to her forehead. She panted for breath, stopping cold when she got within ten feet of him.

“Master! Come quick!”

Tears welled in her brown eyes, and her hands quaked violently. John consciously relaxed his expression, though there was little any master could do to seem approachable to a child.

“What is it? What has happened?” 

“It’s my brother, Master.” Her face went all the more pallid, her hand flailing behind her. “He were caught. Please!” 

John moved past her without another word, his coat already loose on his shoulders.

He slid open the door with a resounding clack. As had not occurred since the strike, one of mules at the far wall had stopped, the fluff it generated suspended in mid-air like a cloud. A small crowd of hands clustered by the machine, their mutterings indecipherable under the whirring fallers. Those still at their looms stole looks at the disturbance, their faces blanched and movements slow. 

John ran up to the idle workers, his heart thundering from what he knew he would find. 

“Move! Those of you who can work, back to work!”

The few still crowded around the scene dispersed. He rolled up his sleeves and shed his jacket to the ground as a familiar brown capped-head turned toward him.

“Tried to get to them soon as I could,” Nicholas intoned gravely.

John knelt down beside him. The man’s round face was pouring with sweat, his warm eyes ringed with red.

“Roller beam snapped as they went to scavenge. Got caught in the carriage.”

John almost did not hear the words as he surveyed the carnage. There were two boys laid out on throwaway bolts, which were already streaked crimson. The younger one, the girl's brother, lie whimpering and holding his wrist. One of the seasoned hands, Richardson, was winding a swath of cloth tight around the last two fingers of his right hand. John presumed the bones had been crushed; the binding would hold until they could be set properly.

Though the Jennings boy was the louder of the two, the elder boy was far worse. Nicholas’ hands cradled his head as tears leaked from his eyes, his tight-lipped grimace holding back any sounds. Shards of bone peeked through the tangled mess of sinew that was once his forearm. A crude tourniquet had been tied just above the elbow to stave off some blood loss.

The child was an O’Neill, the only Irish family to stay so long after the strike. It was still not John's way to take an interest, but their history was not unknown to him. The father had passed of brown lung last winter, sick for years before coming to Milton. The mother was too ill to work, and the girls too young to scavenge or piece.

He was the only boy.

John bit back a self-directed curse. Accidents were inevitable and had happened before. Every man, woman, and child at Marlborough Mills knew it. But the circumstances of this particular incident—which put a family's fate on a son’s shoulders—struck him.

“You, Jennings!”

The Jennings sister, still hanging back in some apparent fear of him, ran closer. She looked to the floor beside her, as though too afraid to look at her brother.

“Go and fetch Dr. Donaldson.” John stopped himself from gritting his teeth at her blank look.

“He is in Blackhall, few streets before Princeton.” His hand clamped on the girl’s shoulder, remembering that _two_ women may now be looking out the window—one who would be particularly distressed by the morning's events.

“You’re to be quiet and quick about it. Is that understood?”

The girl nodded meekly, the horror on her face a reaction to his tone as much as it was concern for her brother. 

"You can tell your mother, on the way back here, that your brother is being cared for," John added, his voice strained but softer.

He turned sharply as her little feet scampered off, hoping she had the presence of mind to direct herself.

A moan, too weak for the pain he was surely feeling, finally wrenched from the O’Neill boy’s throat.

John gave Nicholas a sidelong glance. “Any whisky on hand?”

“Not _on_ hand, of course," said Nicholas slyly, "but Mary’s a mind to add it to stew some nights. She might be able conjure some up in the kitchens.”

“Hoping she can.” John lowered his voice. “Not inclined to go to the house for it.” 

The corners of Nicholas' mouth curled, his eyes twinkling. “Aye. Reckon you’ve a new overlooker to answer to yourself, have you not?”

“That I do,” said John, with the faintest twist of a smile. He could always count on the man's humor, even on a day like this. “I’ll see to things here.” 

Nicholas grunted in agreement, shifting stiffly to his knees as they switched positions. John propped the boy’s head beneath a makeshift pillow of cotton bolts already wadded up beside him. The perspiration in the child’s hair, mingled with dirt and dust, instantly soaked the white cloth. 

Swiping away the sweat of his own brow, John listened to the sounds of his mill at work, knowing it would do little to settle his mind.

* * *

No respectable master was home before seven in early autumn. He'd therefore little sporting chance of entering the house at noon, on a Friday, undetected. It was past tea and before the ladies would luncheon, at least. The side entrance off by the kitchens, well away from the front window, was the safest bet. 

The Jennings girl had done well, finding the doctor and his new assistant, Tompkins, in less than half an hour. As John had expected, the younger boy would do well once the bones were set, which Tompkins would do presently. But Dr. Donaldson had taken one look at the O’Neill boy and hollered for strong hands and a stretcher. After he’d been loaded on, Nicholas and he had made for Mercyhurst. Fortunately, there was one bed left in the children's infirmary. The surgeon there would amputate at once.

Once things had settled to relative calm, John had gone straight to work. One mule down was unsettling enough. The knowledge that other machines were installed around the same time was all the more disturbing. He'd not wait for an inspection that could be months—a year, perhaps—in coming. Any of the others could be next.

He had inspected without issue until the fifth machine, when a faller was too slow to shift, taking a generous slice of hand in the process. Between his and Nicholas’ efforts, they’d managed a somewhat respectable binding.

Unfortunately, there was only a small jig left of the whisky. Dr. Donaldson was likely back on his rounds, so he'd have to wait for care regardless. There were a number of other physicians, of course, but none John trusted.

At any rate, the house was now unavoidable.

Hand concealed in his coat pocket, he opened the door to the side entrance, praying that he’d find only a scullery maid or two.

Instead, he almost barreled over Dixon. She looked up from her water-stained apron with more condemnation than surprise.

“Master Thornton! What you doin’ here at this hour?” 

John bit his lip, smothering the urge to check her impertinent tone. She had never been civil to him, and none too pleased that he was Margaret's choice instead of a southern husband. For his wife’s sake, he had striven to be cordial. Yet the woman's disdain for anyone who was not Mrs. Margaret or Master Frederick was a reminder to not waste breath currying favor.

“I need whisky, boiling water, and some hot cloths—very quietly and very quickly,” he said, careful to speak the urgency with his eyes rather than his volume. He slid his hand out from his pocket. Careful as he was, the slightest disturbance made him wince in agony. Some blood, he saw rather worriedly, was seeping through the cloth.

“What on Earth have you gone and done to yourself?” harrumphed Dixon—as though he were but a child having gotten himself into a scrape. 

A black look was her only warning that he’d not ask twice. 

The thick lines of her downturned mouth creased as she ushered him into the kitchen. She pointed to a small table and chair by the chimneypiece as she scooped two liberal heapings of tea into a nearby pot. After filling a kettle with water, she plunked it down loudly on the stove. 

“It will be some minutes before it boils, of course,” she said crisply. John heard well the few choice phrases she muttered as she bustled up the narrow stairs.

He collapsed into the chair thereafter, already knowing he’d not be able to enjoy the silence. Inevitably his thoughts gave way to dreaded calculations. The day's profit was shot, no matter which way he looked at it. Two years ago, he would have done anything to keep that machine working, let alone sit with the boy.

The master of Marlborough Mills smiled despite himself. Margaret’s beneficence _had_ rubbed off on him, it seemed. 

On a bitterer note, they were still too far behind to catch up anyway. 

“John!” 

A waterfall of black silk billowed forward as Hannah rushed toward him. With effort, he sat up, both agitated and impressed as she leaned over him, inspecting his hand. He almost asked how she knew he was there, but did not. Her motherly instincts had always bordered on supernatural prescience. 

“Please calm yourself, Mother.” He moved his shoulder blades where the wooden chair back was now digging into him, steadying himself on his elbow for support.

Hannah swept his hair off his forehead, which had again dampened despite the autumn day. She turned back toward the entryway, no doubt to call for Jane, when John raised his good hand to forestall her.

“I already asked Dixon for some whisky. It is not as bad as you think it.”

“You will surely need more than a bit of whisky.” Mrs. Thornton cast a critical eye on the blood seeping through his makeshift bandages. “I will send for Dr. Donaldson at once.”

“He was here not an hour ago." John sighed with regret, not yet ready to divulge what he must. "Doubt he will come again.”

Despite her worry, Hannah’s chin inclined slightly, as if to congratulate herself. “I swore I heard a machine stop earlier. Someone caught?”

“Two, actually. It was two boys. One’s fingers crushed and the other will lose the arm.”

“It is that Higgins,” she hissed, as though to absolve her son of his remorse. “Promoted him but weeks ago, and look what happens? Why could _he_ not test the machines instead of you?” 

“He was reassigning places and watching the floor—under my orders,” John added sternly. “The roller was never steady on that one. Only one person to be blamed for that.”

“Don’t you dare. There is nothing you could have done about those machines, John.” 

Wearily, the master of Marlborough Mills regarded his mother's black halo of discontent. She had watched him grow the mill these past thirteen years—and been on the floor, no less. She knew well it was not Nicholas’ fault. Under the growing throb of his hand, it was an effort to temper his harsher words.

She looked at the ceiling, as though speaking to God Himself. “Always thinking of others and taking all the blame when he's sacrificed enough himself." John almost looked away from the very knowing glance she suddenly darted at him. 

"It is no wonder who puts _those_ notions into your head.”

“Whatever has happened to you?”

They both turned toward Margaret, John's planned retort forgotten. Seeing the binding, and what John suspected to be a slightly feverish state, Margaret hurried forth. She crouched to get a better look at his hand with no apparent care for the hem of her white muslin. Patches of irritation sprung up on her cheeks as she glanced from John’s bandages to Hannah. He forced himself to look into her pleading eyes, not keen to explain the ordeal a second time.

“There was an accident at the mill and two boys were injured." 

“Children?”

He nodded, immediately regretting such a terse summary. It was easy to forget how shocking it might sound to a woman from the south, where children did not labor.

“One of the machines, a moving component," he corrected, "had snapped.” 

“The roller beam, you mean?” 

John tried not to gape, an effort challenged by the proud twitch of Margaret's lips. Injured children, his hovering mother, and his throbbing hand notwithstanding, it was the most erotically intelligent question she'd ever asked.

“There is no need to concern yourself with such matters,” Hannah cut in, nonplussed. “This is not the first time a child has been injured, and it will not be the last.”

“Concern myself?” Margaret rose up a bit, though not near eye-level with Mrs. Thornton. The gloss of her tears was swiftly drying to that bright-eyed rage with which John was well-acquainted. “I’ve no idea how you could not be _concerned_ at the thought of suffering children.”

John surveyed this prelude to battle with powerless disappointment. Though subsequent events had quickly obscured it, he had been inquisitive about their conversation following yesterday’s breakfast. He'd no inclination to pry, but he had guessed well enough its subject.

If the present exchange was any indication, it might have been even worse than he thought.

“I did not ask either of you to tend to me,” he said, dictating a firm change of topic.

“And,” Margaret bit back, flushed and defiant, “I am sure no one asked _you_ to injure yourself.” 

She leapt up from her position as she heard Dixon’s footsteps behind her. The servant walked in—a bit leisurely for John’s liking—with the requested whisky and cloths. 

“Thank you,” Margaret said as she took the bundle of items. “I shall tend to him from here.”

John eyed Dixon with contempt. The slightly smug smile on her face as she exited back up the stairs all but confirmed his suspicion. Miraculous as it was for his mother to have discovered him, Margaret happening upon the kitchens was outright Providential...

The kettle began to whistle and Margaret rushed to it at once. With a touch of wonder and much admiration, John watched her deliberate preparations. After soaking a clean cloth in scalding water, she laid out the dry strips one by one. His pride at her physicking knowledge was sobered by the reminder that she once led a far more menial life in Milton.

Hannah oversaw her endeavors with prim anxiety, as if reading his latter thought. “Jane can take care of such matters.”

“I would rather her stick to the linens, Mrs. Thornton.” Margaret did not look up from the cup of tea she was now pouring. She walked over, placing the cup and whisky on the table.“I am sure we would not want her telling all of Milton that Mr. Thornton’s hand was severed off.”

Feverish or not, John swore there was a momentary glimmer of humility on his mother’s face. Without a word, she popped open the whisky herself, pouring it into his tea with perfect temperance.

He took a slow, testing sip. As could be expected at Dixon's hands, the tea was near the strength of the liquor. The latter ingredient was still burning down his throat as Margaret unraveled his dressings.

To his chagrin, the wound was already raging at the seams. He nearly bit the rim of his teacup when Margaret dabbed at it with the hot cloth, now also soaked with whisky. The pain now shooting through him was inducement enough to take a far more liberal sip.

Margaret's lips drew tight with worry as she examined him. “John, you need the doctor at once.”

“I told him as much,” Hannah chimed in. To John's gratitude, she made no move to criticize his wife's ministrations. If Margaret's acumen of mill machinery had not impressed her, at least something apparently had. 

He did not know whether to groan with frustration or to laugh. It seemed an accord between the two of them could be won only at the cost of his own injury.

By the time his mother called for her articles—having a mind to go for the doctor herself—he had long resigned himself to being outmaneuvered. 

“Dr. Donaldson will be vexed to show himself here twice in one day, mind.” Hannah fastened her overcoat before making a quick, practicable bow of her bonnet ribbon. 

“There are some of Dixon’s delicious coconut cakes left, I think," Margaret said cheerfully. "He always enjoyed them when he would call on Mama.”

“I believe I had one when Fanny and I visited you at Crampton," Hannah said, clearly ignoring Margaret’s slightly wistful tone as much as John took it to heart. Still, she regarded her daughter-in-law with a gleam in her eye that was almost encouraging. "They should be enough to tempt him here, at any rate.”

Margaret only nodded as Mrs. Thornton pulled on her gloves and she strode out through the side door.

John glanced up fondly at his wife standing above him, unraveling a long strip of cloth. It was so seldom that he had to look up at her instead of down. He was still smiling at this reversal, and her amicable exchange with his mother, when Margaret’s look of fervent worry drew him from his thoughts.

"And you've every assurance the boy will be well?"

“The doctor said there would be no signs of infection," John said frankly. "But the child will not work again.”

She frowned implacably. “But what of the other children in the home? Can no one take his place?”

“It is the O'Neill boy." He sighed, knowing he was done in. There was no chance she had not heard of the family with how many baskets she'd taken during the strike. "Father is gone and mother is ill. He is the last one who could work.”

He braced himself as her lips contorted, her brow rumpling with determination in a way he could not help but find charming.

“Then we shall help them.”

Her words neither surprised nor pleased him. This was, inevitably, going to be her response to every crisis his mill hands incurred. If she had her way, Margaret would spend her days ministering to every family in Princeton. 

“I say this with no malice, Margaret. But you know well we cannot help the family of every worker in our mill. We are feeding them now, and it is expense enough.” 

“I am well aware, but a child will have lost a limb. Surely it would not be inappropriate to visit.”

“No, not as Miss Hale, it wouldn’t.” He shook his head, knowing he must speak plainly as always, but loath to do it. “There’s no knowing how you’ll be received in Princeton as Mrs. Thornton—as any master’s wife might be.”

He watched in silence as a sad understanding crept over her face. Though he had neither the wish nor the capability of containing her spirit, life would not be the same for her now. Could not.

She stroked his arm absently, pausing with that noble carriage that still struck him with wonder. “I did not think of my reception, I admit—nor of the expense you take with your workers. It is still quite new to me to consider anyone as a hand rather than as a person.”

John's shoulders tensed. Those snippets of philosophy, however he missed them of the gentle Mr. Hale, were always portents of argument with his fiery daughter.

“But I cannot help but think of them as whole people rather than hands.” She began bandaging him again with strident motions, her voice just as firm. “I shall visit the O’Neills with a basket on Monday.”

He waited for the anger to come. Its absence could be blamed on the drink, had anyone else so willfully ignored common sense. With her, it was no use. He would always be drunk on her fire and conviction whenever they flared.

It was something else, too. Before, he had always first esteemed her kindness, mostly because he could not show it. He'd not thought of the philosophies which inspired it. She was, in every way, a thoughtful, thinking woman. Educated on the hands' side of things, she had never expressed interest in reading literature on the precepts of manufacturing. And yet, she showed a keen enough understanding. 

There would always be the social responsibilities of being a lady in Milton society. But such duties need not eclipse her sense of purpose—her ‘moral duty,’ as she’d always called it. It also need not interfere with her becoming a proper mistress of Marlborough Mills, in every sense.

John felt her looking at him perplexedly as he cracked a smile.

“Then visit you shall.”

Margaret dabbed at the wound, obviously constraining her astonishment. “I thank you for it.”

“There is one condition, however.” He placed his cup down with a clink, looking up at her slowly.

“For many years, the only people I’ve listened to about the business—save for Mother—were masters like myself. I have Higgins now, but he is long familiar with the ways of cotton and the mill."

The cloth gently dabbing him stilled. "I do not understand, John. What exactly are you proposing?”

“I propose you take on a more ‘active’ role as befits you. Up until a few months ago, Mother would look over the floor when I was out on business.”

“Before the wedding," he continued hastily, watching Margaret's arching brow, "she said that she’d no place to be on the floor at her age, and she is right. I’ve no wish for her, busy as we are now, to assume more responsibility at her time of life.” 

“So,” Margaret finished, “you would like me to take your mother’s place on the floor when needed.”

“Perhaps.”

“Pray, say what you mean!” she cried, her frustrated words betraying a laugh. “These evasions are unlike you.”

“I mean," he said, smirking at her eagerness, "that I should like you to be as much a part of the mill as you wish—not just because I am your tenant." He swiped at his brow. "We have taken on more workers than ever, Margaret—perhaps more than I was prepared to manage. I offer this so you might better appreciate my responsibilities and those of the workers. And thus you may make your own conclusions on how to improve Marlborough Mills."

Her eyes widened in such a perfectly innocent way that John could not help but laugh.

“Mother was right," he said. "What happened today will happen again, but another set of eyes on things can only help us now. Especially someone with more...charitable instincts.”

"Charitable instincts?"

"I mean only to say that you bring a new perspective."

The small frown she gave stirred within him a disappointment and indignation. He could not imagine what he'd said to offend, though he was already sorry for it. When she looked up, however, there was a glint in her eye.

“Was it not you, sir, who once professed to my father that you did not run a ‘charitable institution?'”

“So it was.” A wave of amber warmth of the whisky, the room, and her washed over him as he smiled. 

“It is not to say that I should submit to your every demand."

"A few demands, then?"

"Perhaps."

His reply was almost cut short as she rounded his hand again with the binding, pulling a bit too tight. 

"I am afraid my hand will be rather useless for a while," he breathed.

It took a moment of assessing her crimson flush before he felt his collar heat in turn. Their evening last night had lent his utterance a second _entendre_. Hazy as he felt, he was glad of it. If she thought of him, of their time in each other's arms, with half the longing he did, he was a man blessed.

When she'd wound the end of the last strip she stood, her cheeks still a proper shade of rose. “Another layer, I think.”

He nodded gratefully, training himself to stoicism else she think him teasing. She was climbing the first step on the stairwell when he remembered.

“I meant to ask you,” he called out, “was it Higgins who educated you on the roller beam?”

“My understanding was procured from another source, in fact." She peeked her head back down with playful smile that sent a throb straight through him.

"There was a handsome gentleman at the Great Exhibition who was quite the expert.”

She resumed her path upstairs, leaving John smiling as he listened to her petticoats swish away—a bit suggestively, to his imagination.

In the glow of that fleeting happiness, he tried to focus on his better thoughts of the past three days. He also said a small prayer that Dr. Donaldson could work a miracle before nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a loooooong one. Totally lied about first chapter's notes being longest. (Sorry, but I like to explain things because I'm a nerdy-pants. Feel free to skip.) :-) 
> 
> First, I had started reading Mrs. Gaskell's novel some time ago and, candidly, was not feeling it. I'm giving it a second shot on audiobook (Juliet Stevenson), mostly to delve into John psychologically, and am finding a new appreciation for the novel. While I am keeping the characters to the miniseries, I may be adding some a "sprinkling" of novel flavor. This should not overtly affect characterization, but may manifest accordingly in some scenes (e.g., maybe my Dixon is a wee crankier than strictly miniseries, but never nasty...). 
> 
> While we're on the note of characterization, please keep in mind that I am writing a (very flimsy) mystery. As such, _certain things_ will be necessarily ambiguous...at least from a _character's_ perspective.
> 
> ;-)
> 
> Anyway, onto research-y things and more character notes:
> 
> 1) I know there is a lot going on in these initial chapters, but I promise we'll get a _bit_ of a breather.
> 
> 2) I goofed on the year like a dumb-dumb. We are in 1852, folks. Definitely, definitely 1852.
> 
> 3) I now am pretty well-versed in the English Factory Acts. If something is distractingly awry, please let me know. I will either explain or correct.
> 
> 4) Cotton mules and jennies, etc. are complicated contraptions with complex histories. Though self-acting mules were invented in the 1830s, it took time to adopt them. John was doing well at the beginning of North and South, but it would still have been an expense to replace older machines, which would still have been prevalent around 1840-1843ish when he probably became master of MM. This was about as far in depth as I went, or this chapter wouldn't have come out until Christmas.
> 
> 5) "Lickspittle" means kiss-ass. Not eager to overdo the slang, but it fit.
> 
> 6) "Overlooker" is a consistent miniseries and book term.
> 
> 7) I am obviously not in the medical profession, but research revealed much ignorance about wound care until 1860s. The activities in this chapter might just reflect this ignorance and my own. (Historical nurse people, please call me out!).
> 
> 8) There was a children's hospital in Manchester, one of the first in England. In solidarity with the fictionalization of Manchester to Milton, I fictionalized the name.
> 
> 9) I was trying, very diligently, to find an inheritance exemption to the coverture laws prior to the Married Women's Property Act of 1882. There were a few legal precedents, but I didn't get into the weeds. Let's just say that Margaret still owns MM because it was part of a living/inheritance, but as a married woman, she cannot do anything with John's business. The feminist flavoring is definitely more miniseries than book. We have a deal, my fine readers? :-)
> 
> 10) In several respects, John strikes me as a reasonably feminist and fair chap who REALLY wants to make Margaret happy.
> 
> 11) As far as I have learned, downstairs folks took two scoops of tea. Upstairs folks took one.
> 
> 12) I swear I am trying to not bash the tea over the head, but was merely trying to get some alcohol into John in a civilized manner. This will not be the last time I mention tea, but I promise they won't be guzzling it constantly. 
> 
> 13) You may have noticed that I am using American English spelling in text and attempting to use Commonwealth English in dialogue. Really trying to avoid Americanisms. Please call me out when you see anything.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	6. A Snake in Satin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry about the hiatus...went through a pretty rough couple of months. To those kindred spirits I've met on here, extra sorry I've been out of touch and will reconnect soon. (Depression sucks, but I have a solid medical handle on things again. 'Twill be a lifelong battle, but it's one I'm used to fighting.)
> 
> This is a quicker chapter so, naturally, I got hung up on it forever. Chapter 7 is already coming more easily. I hope I'm back into my groove for good.
> 
> My husband also said he would drink my celebratory/new job wine if I didn't post this tonight. Gosh do I love my man for keeping me motivated...
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Thank you so, so much for sticking with me and with this story.

“...And to think Mr. Slickson was seen at the Garden! My maid swears she saw a smear of red on his collar as he left a house of i—...Have you not heard a word I’ve been saying, Margaret?”

Margaret looked blankly at her sister-in-law’s glinting eyes. What was intended to be a brief stop for curtain fabric had become an hour-long perusal of Parisian satins. Fanny, who had perchance also stopped at Becker's that day, had tootled such a shrill 'Margaret, dear!' that nearly every patron had gawked. Any chance of a brief exchange, let alone an escape, was effectively dashed.

Fanny had apprised Margaret of her mission to locate a very particular shade of forest green satin that she had seen in London. Margaret wanted no part of the conquest, particularly as she'd made no progress on the curtains. Still, she could not find it in her heart to so rudely abandon her new sister.

“I am sorry, Fanny." Margaret offered a bashful smile. "The mill has been quite busy and—”

“Oh, stuff the mill!" Fanny’s glove skimmed disapprovingly down a bolt of deep teal silk. “You sound just like John and my Watson. You might as well take brandy and cigars with them next!”

A forced laugh burbled in Margaret’s throat. In truth, the thought of holding her own with the masters in a smoke-filled debate was not entirely repulsive.

Though not yet an expert, she'd learnt much about the world of cotton. With John’s hand mending and business booming, her interest in the mill had been well-timed. To ease her in, John had asked Margaret to sort and file the documents he'd only ever handled himself.

It had taken but a glance at the chaos on his desk, however, to realize what she was in for. His cheeks had reddened tellingly at Margaret's chiding gasp as she practically shooed him away. From that moment on, Margaret was set on restoring order and easing her husband's burden.

Beyond her expectations, she had come to enjoy it. Once tidied a bit, the office became almost inviting. She came to await the sight of that golden light, dingy and soot-filtered as it was, that could still sparkle the motes of dust. It brought to life her favorite childhood memory: her, nestled between piles of books in her father's study, her tiny fingers straining to catch each shimmering fleck. The happy thought sustained her through even the dullest work.

The more Margaret sorted and filed, the deeper her fascination became. In days, she'd learnt the full history of Marlborough Mills. In weeks, she’d understood what drove all of England's cotton industry. She read about the unabating price climbs in America, of acts of Parliament and of workers’ rights. She'd even devoured the pamphlets, her favorite being a dog-eared booklet with a bright glossy cover from the Great Exhibition.

So engaging were these new diversions, in fact, that Margaret could not recall the first signs that something was amiss. First came the masters' wives’ curt nods in the street. Then came tea with Mrs. Hamper, whose smile was too smug and lemon-pursed to be imagined. Even Dr. Donaldson's wife had turned up her nose a bit when they'd met at the haberdasher's.

At first, Margaret could only guess at a reason for gossip. Had she committed some great gaffe at the wedding?

Regardless, the specter of town chatter had done little to dampen her enthusiasm for her first visit to Princeton since she’d returned home. The O'Neill children had taken the croup, forcing her to wait over a week past the accident to see little Jim. Despite the circumstances, returning to those dirty, narrow alleys gave Margaret a nostalgic anticipation. She’d even gone so far as to look for her old mulberry-colored coat to celebrate the occasion—only to realize that Aunt Shaw had likely tossed it after the move to London.

Perhaps it was due to that loss of the coat that she felt such a strange foreignness as she passed under the canopy of damp laundry. So too did she feel the beady-eyed stares peeking through the windows. Those who did venture out offered abrupt ‘hullos’ in lieu of exuberant ‘Miss Hales!’ It was only reasonable, she reassured herself, that they should not cry ‘Mrs. Thornton’ with similar enthusiasm.

If her reception was not all she’d dreamt, her visit with the O’Neills was even more disheartening. Mrs. O’Neill made no more conversation than necessary, too busy wading through children tugging at her skirts. Poor Jim made for a pitiful sight in his bandages, flushed one minute and wracked with chills the next. He’d fallen into a fitful slumber only a minute after Margaret sat with him. She'd departed soon after, in far lower spirits than when she’d arrived.

The events in these first weeks back in Milton had all amounted to a sobering reminder. As a master's wife, she had duties in the home and in society. As Margaret Thornton, she shared in the responsibility of a child hurt in the mill. _Her_ mill.

She could not forget her gratitude to the workers of Milton. When she had come, a foreigner from the South, they had made her feel more welcomed and appreciated than gentler folk ever had. She yearned to assure them that she was still a friend, if never again a confidant.

And, if no strata of society would accept her, at least Nicholas understood. Other than at the mill, she thought with a frown, she had seen regrettably little of him and the Boucher children of late. She would have to visit—

“Oh! Mrs. Slickson!”

Margaret's spine locked in apprehension as a very starched Mrs. Slickson waved in reply to Fanny. Of all the masters’ wives, she seemed to whisper and connive more than any other. It was no surprise that she and Fanny were thick as thieves. It was even less surprising that the woman oozed the same reptilian charm as her husband.

The thought of the Slicksons, two lizards atop a log, tickled the corners of Margaret's mouth. She bit her lip just as Mrs. Slickson warmly clasped Fanny's arm.

“Mrs. Watson,” she said sweetly. “...and Mrs. Thornton...What a lovely surprise to see you both!”

Margaret bobbed her head with polite restraint. Mrs. Slickson's strategically smug pause had not escaped her. _Conniving indeed._

“You will have to excuse me if I seem fatigued,” the woman announced breezily. “I am just returned from the de Clares in Piccadilly." She turned expectantly to Margaret. "You are acquainted with the family, I am sure, what with your London connections?”

“I regret to say I am not.” Though the family name was vaguely familiar, Margaret felt distinctly that she'd already met and disliked them.

Conversely, Fanny’s eyes were alight like candles at Christmastide.

“Ah, the de Clares! I was a bit disappointed that they could not attend my brother's wedding." Fanny cocked her head proudly. "Miss de Clare has always said how much she'd love to visit us all here in Milton.”

“But of course, my dear!" Mrs. Slickson smiled thinly. "Though do remember, they always reside in Corfu until mid-October. At least, they did when I joined them but two years ago.”

"Ah...well, naturally. It would take the world to part them from beautiful Corfu. The Riviera is so scenic, is it not?"

A shrill peal of laughter wiped the seaside fantasy clear off Fanny's face. Margaret watched in horror as Mrs. Slickson clutched her side.

“Oh, Mrs. Watson! To suggest that the Riviera is anywhere near Corfu! Why, one who did not know you better might not understand your humor! Granted, the Riviera is lovely, though it has attracted a worldlier foule in recent years.”

The gleam in the woman's eye as she straightened was enough to stoke Margaret's ire. That Fanny was untraveled was obvious. But to comment on it, in public, took a different sort of meanness.

Clearly, Margaret thought with a twinge of pity, it was a rather one-sided friendship.

Fanny croaked out an uncomfortable laugh. "So you do understand my humor, Mrs. Slickson! A bit of fun, is all." Her eyes widened with pathetic hopefulness, like a child too eager to please her teacher. "But, in all seriousness, I would give a thousand trips to the Riviera, or Corfu for that matter, for but a glimpse of the Alhambra.”

A wave of anxiety almost made Margaret forget her vexation. It had been hours since she'd thought of Frederick and Dolores. The reminder of the uncertainty, of having no word in weeks, sent her heart plummeting. She prayed that the Alhambra was all Fanny would mention of Spain...

“I’ve always dreamt of it,” Fanny continued obliviously. “Those glorious towers touching the sky. So romantic.”

“Very romantic, if not entirely Christian, you know," chirped Mrs. Slickson, her interest in the conversation (and Fanny) clearly waning. "But of course, one can only see the sand and surf of the Adriatic so many times, can they not?”

Upon seeing Fanny's mouth open in that dreadful fish-like way of hers, Margaret was compelled to intervene. However, as she had never mastered Milton small talk, Mrs. Slickson beat her to the punch.

“And you, Mrs. Thornton,” the woman said primly. "Marlborough Mills seems quite busy at all hours these days, from what my husband informs me.”

“That is true. There are still orders to be caught up on from the strike, but we are managing well.”

“We?”

Margaret’s fingers curled a bit too tightly around the handle of her bag. She could dance around it all day, but best to get her great "confession" over with.

“Yes. I have taken on certain...duties at the mill.”

Both women regarded her, aghast, though only one truly seemed surprised.

“Duties? Do you mean to say that you walk the floor?” hissed Fanny, her eyes veritable saucers. “It was one thing for mother to do it—even dressed in black as she always is—but surely, you would not! You would sully every gown! It is not the done thing!”

Such a vision of herself, striding around the mill floor with that stern brow, almost set Margaret to a snort. “There is little need to worry, Fanny,” she consoled. "At present, I am merely learning how the machines operate—the basic tenets of business as I should. I am also filing and attending to the books.”

“Yes, I had almost forgotten, Mrs. Thornton,” Mrs. Slickson cut in. “You are a regular heiress now! What good fortune to have such a benevolent uncle—”

“Friend, actually.” Margaret sniffed. “Of my father.”

“But was the man not an academic?”

“He was indeed, but he owned many properties in England, he—”

Margaret stopped short. To discuss Mr. Bell's business affairs in front of this insufferable busybody would be the greatest disrespect to his memory.

“Oh, but you must forgive me,” Mrs. Slickson said, interrupting the pregnant silence. “Let us not speak of business like our husbands, ladies. Truly, Mrs. Thornton, I must compliment you again on your lovely wedding celebration as I barely spent a moment with you on the special day. It was the toast of Milton!”

“I thank you,” said Margaret, not grateful at all.

“Was it not splendid?” Fanny poked her head forward, rather desperately, between the two other women. “Well, almost as splendid as mine, anyway. Thorntons will have only the best.”

“And such an exquisite gown!" gushed Mrs. Slickson, gesturing toward Margaret’s skirts. “Mine was not so fine, though the fashion of some years ago was not as extravagant as now, of course. And so many guests!”

"A few more than I'd have preferred, admittedly."

“Oh, but of course. After your country upbringing it must have seemed as though all of England was there!”

“I—”

"I confess," continued Mrs. Slickson, ignoring both Margaret’s interjection and reddening face, "I was rather curious about one of them. None of the ladies could quite identify him! Surely you remember: a rather raggedy-looking fellow?"

Margaret swallowed a dry pocket of air. She'd not thought of Everhart in days—perhaps at least a week. She’d no intention of renewing the memory.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Slickson, but I do not recall. Perhaps it was one of our buyers?"

"Surely not!” Mrs. Slickson gasped, clutching her chest. “He looked as if someone had taken him right off the street! It was gracious of you and your husband to receive such a disreputable looking fellow."

Margaret’s stomach twisted with apprehension. One look at Mrs. Slickson's goading eyes made it lurch. 

_What did she know?_

“You must have spoken to your husband for scarcely five minutes that whole night!” the woman prattled on. “There must have been masters from every corner of England! And to think of Mr. Thornton leaving his poor bride so unattended, nearly swooning—”

“I assure you,” Margaret interrupted shakily, “that I was quite well.”

“Oh, poor dear.” Mrs. Slickson winked conspiratorially at Fanny. “We married women all feel as though we should endure in silence. But it was plain to see that you were suffering from some ague.” She flicked a bit of lint that had nested on the ribbon of her bonnet.

“Of course, I would be considerably distressed if such a scoundrel should sit so very close to me on a chaise. The utter presumption!"

The shop was buzzing with patrons, but the silence following Mrs. Slickson's words only amplified Margaret’s fury, at this woman and at herself.

What a fool she had been to presume only Hannah had seen that horrible interlude with Everhart!

"Mrs. Slickson," she enunciated tepidly, "I wonder if you've not heard how Mrs. Hamper's children are doing? I hear that the croup has struck the house not this past week."

"The children are sick as can be, from what the servants tell me, though one can only trust so much of what servants say, of course. I am positive one of the servants up and gave it to poor little Christiana Hamper. And what with nine children! Well, they all went down like grass in a gale!"

Mrs. Slickson's fox smile, fake as it now so patently seemed, set off warning bells in Margaret's head as she set her sights again on Fanny.

"Before I forget, dearest Mrs. Watson, how goes Mr. Watson's speculation in London? My husband tells me that you traveled there recently."

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Fanny. "He has a great many clients and has been spending quite a bit of time there."

"It is wonderful to hear of his success! Though, my dear, I do not wonder that you might feel a bit...well...abandoned?"

Fanny waved a dismissive hand. "Not in the least! Every minute he is in London is well worth it. Why, we are to purchase a new Victoria with gold-trimmed wheels next week. Made by the Queen's coachbuilder himself!"

"How impressive! You shall have to take me on a drive the first of Spring." Mrs. Slickson sighed wistfully. "If only I could bear to part with my Slickson as you do your Watson we might be able to go on a proper European tour next year, but I do not know what I would do without him, and our dear children, so close by."

Her eyes flicked down to Fanny's tightly-laced bodice.

"Of course, not all women are so blessed to have both a husband and four healthy children."

Margaret turned to Fanny, finding what she feared she would. A telltale stripe of red was already blooming from her nose to her cheeks.

“Why, Mrs. Watson! Whatever is the matter? You look positively flushed!”

Though Fanny could not look Mrs. Slickson in the eye, her lips dragged over her teeth into a ghastly smile. “I am quite well! Merely the thought of such...such...exhilarating travel.”

Though she'd never lay hands on anyone in violence, the thought of shoving the odious woman into a stack of boxes flashed in Margaret's mind with righteous indignation. To shame a woman for being untraveled was rude. To shame a supposed friend for being childless was despicable.

Yet for John’s sake—for Fanny’s—she would be civil. Must be.

It was then that it struck: That earlier tidbit in Fanny’s inane ramblings that Margaret had retained. It was a piece of gossip, she knew, that Mrs. Slickson would certainly _not_ care for.

Before she realized what she was doing, Margaret clamped a firm hand on Mrs. Slickson’s shoulder. The woman looked up, the vaguest flicker of fear in her eyes.

“I would take care not to speak in such a way of others when—”

At that moment, the clocked chimed three.

In an instant, the woman's color returned, along with that look of insufferable triumph. Wordlessly, Mrs. Slickson shrugged off Margaret’s touch, as though she’d been naught more than a fly.

“My word!" the woman cried. "And I thought it was only half past! I must be on my way. We are to receive Baroness Portman tomorrow. Dearest friend of the family, you know."

One woman red and the other pale, Margaret and Fanny merely nodded and muttered their goodbyes. When the door chimed and closed, Fanny hooked Margaret's arm in her own. Rage was still pulsing too hot in Margaret's veins, still feeling her glove on that odious woman’s silk, to acknowledge the affection of the gesture.

"Come," Fanny said with a sniff. "I surely remember Becker's wares being far better than this!"

It was only a few steps from the shop that the young woman's still pallid complexion turned a sour olive. Margaret ushered her over to a small bench and hailed a cab.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Margaret found herself with a mouthful of ermine.

“What did you mean by insulting her in such a way?” Fanny retracted her muff, shoving her hands into it with a pout. “You have all but ruined every chance I had of summering with the de Clares!”

“I thought you both better acquainted, Fanny,” Margaret whispered. "I would never have thought her to treat you so ill."

It was tempting to lash out at Fanny for her insipidity. That she would ignore a grievous insult in the name of fashion was so like her. But from the scrunched and wounded look on Fanny’s face, it was far more than the loss of the de Clares that vexed her.

When she finally spoke, it was in a low voice that Margaret could scarcely hear.

“It has been two years already. I’ve almost no reason to hope it now, you know. I’ve no idea what I should do if we cannot...If I cannot...”

As she saw Fanny’s reddening eyes, unexpected pity again swelled in Margaret's heart. Never had Fanny shown she was capable of such deep feeling, other than for her beloved piano. Instinctively, she put her hand on Fanny’s. It had already gone cold after fidgeting its way out of the muff.

“I’ve little knowledge of these matters, but please—you musn’t lose heart. I am sure that God will bless you and Watson soon enough.”

"You think it?"

"Yes, I do, sister."

A glassy sheen covered Fanny’s eyes, and Margaret almost did not know where to look. The indignant sniffle Fanny gave came almost as a relief.

“And I know for a fact that the de Clares _do_ summer in the Riviera.”

“I’ve no doubt of it. And I hope that you may travel there soon enough. Perhaps a tour of the entire Mediterranean would suffice.”

Fanny turned toward the window, her eyes full of rapture at the thought. When she turned back around, her face had given way again to dreadful alarm.

Margaret sighed with more maternal than sisterly exasperation. “Whatever is it, Fanny?”

She cocked her head in that proud and unmistakable Thornton way, even as her brow furrrowed with hesitation. “Well suppose...suppose, we should we be so blessed—my Watson and I, I mean—supposing he is driven to the Garden during...well....you know! However should I bear it?”

Between her sister-in-law’s wide eyes and fish mouth, Margaret had to try harder than ever not to laugh.

“I think you are more than safe from such dangers. Your husband cares for you deeply and would not be so tempted.”

“Yes, but just look at Mrs. Slickson!”

“You are not Mrs. Slickson. And please be glad of it.”

Despite Margaret's vehement assurances, Fanny's expression was implacable. With a weary roll of her eyes that turned to a smile, Margaret clasped Fanny's hands in hers.

"There is but one reason I can think of that your Mr. Watson could be driven to such vice.”

Fanny looked up, agog. She squeezed Margaret’s fingers with imploring desperation.

“Yes? Oh, do not leave me in such dreadful suspense!”

As seriously as she could manage, Margaret looked into Fanny's wide blue eyes.

“It is if..."

"Dear heavens, I shall scream!"

"...It is if the good ladies of the Garden are served with an infinite supply of fried potatoes.”

After a few moments of perplexity, Fanny—followed by Margaret—dissolved into peals of much-needed laughter.

* * *

John had said he would not be home until well after ten o'clock. Margaret had waited until eleven before finally lying down.

She fluffed her pillow, searching in vain for a comfortable position. The events of the day swirled in her mind.

_Poor Fred._

__

_Poor Fanny._

_Reptile Slicksons..._

Margaret turned upward only to glare at the ceiling in frustration. Even if there was talk, it was meaningless.

It was all but certain she would never see Mr. Everhart again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know...no John. It's rough, but hoping it'll make his return all the sweeter. And sorry for the slow build on Everhart's return (which _might_ be pretty imminent-ish). Still a ways to go with this story, folks. 
> 
> And now, to glug my delicious wine...
> 
> <3  
> HRM
> 
> P.S. (The wine is NOT delicious. But it's still wine, it's all I have, and the wind chill is a balmy 7 degrees Fahrenheit here so not leaving the home under any circumstances. Sipping...winning...)


	7. Any Man of Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey...I'm ba-aaaaack (again). I know: the broken record of many woes and excuses. 
> 
> I'm not even going to go into it all, but let's just say that a lot of very big changes have happened very quickly and, as a result, I am now happier than ever. 
> 
> (Am politely calling this phase my "one-thirds-life crisis," sans any affairs, divorce, or new cars. But, what I will say, is that at least one piercing may be involved...and *gasp* writing for money!)
> 
> Story stuff:
> 
> 1) I changed chapter 6 slightly but significantly. Margaret is NOT saved by the bell...well, not exactly. :-O  
> 2) While still series-based, am relying on a few things from the book in this chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hope it was worth another wait!

“So let me get this straight, Thornton. You were down there on the floor yourself ministering to the child? And letting the machine go dead, no less?”

John glared at the last mouthful in his glass rather than at Slickson. He had little affinity for drink, but the past few weeks had been trying. He had even less affinity for a host hell-bent on goading him to anger.

Throat burning as he polished off his brandy, he thwacked the tumbler on the table.

“A boy with one arm is preferable to a boy dead in my mill.”

“Indeed,” Slickson replied, strolling aimlessly toward the fireplace. “But a maimed boy is still a mouth to feed at your table of good and plenty.”

Eyes blazing, the master of Marlborough Mills surveyed the others at the table. As was usual in the wake of Slickson’s baser commentary, the masters offered little more than nervous smiles. Still, they examined John a bit too expectantly. 

They wanted an outburst, an explosion of old. They would be sorely disappointed.

“You all seem keen to speculate on my affairs,” he said, leaning back into his chair with deliberate casualness. “Is business really so sluggish at your mills?”

“None said that.” Henderson exhaled a leisurely tendril of cigar smoke. “Just noticing that you may have bit off a bit more than you can chew, eh?”

Hamper’s stout frame heaved as he chuckled. “I think what he means to say is you need to look out for yourself. Any master in your position should.”

“My position is better than it has ever been.”

“Aye, better indeed!” Henderson gestured to the group. “Got workers coming out his ears and nowhere to put ‘em.”

“You’ll not forget that my warehouse is sizeable. I’d not take on workers if I’d no place to put them.” 

Though John was loath to boast, it was a necessary point. Or was it?

He folded his arms in frustration, correcting his easy posture. The situation of space, or lack thereof, would be dealt with.

“But I’ll not waste my breath explaining my decisions to anyone.”

“You men of fortune never explain your decisions to us common folk,” Harkness guffawed.

“Aye!”

At this, Watson, seated near the head of the table, put up his hands. “Well enough, gentlemen, well enough. I’d say Thornton’s earned more than his fair share of speculation for the evening.”

Henderson slapped his knee. “By George, our resident speculator has a point!” 

As the group had a good laugh, a shadow crossed Watson’s normally jovial face. He had not yet told Fanny—or anyone else at the table, save John—but the meeting in London had not gone to plan. He had lost thousands. 

John pressed a finger to his pounding temple. If Watson’s next venture failed, the man would be asking for a loan soon enough.

A spoon dinged glass, drawing everyone’s attention as Henderson stood. 

“I propose a toast to Thornton and his bloody good fortune. Not all of us have ourselves a fine southern woman on our arm.”

“Nor forty thousand to play with!”

“Here, here!”

“I play at nothing, as you all well know,” John groused beneath the round of clinking glasses. “And I’ll thank you to leave my wife out of it.”

He squeezed his tumbler, which was somehow full again, as an elbow jostled him. The glass was thick; too hardy to break in his grip. 

“Ah, come on, just a bit of fun, eh?” Henderson jibed, bidding him raise his tumbler.

“And we all know he cannot abide that!” laughed Harkness.

“I would bet you, gentlemen, that at least one type of fun interests him.”

Everyone looked up as Slickson, now silhouetted by the fire, sauntered back to the table, wholly ignoring John’s warning glare. 

“If my wife was half so fair—”

Chair legs scraped the floor.

“If you utter another word about my—"

“Oh Lord.” Slickson rolled his eyes toward the gilded ceiling. “Keep your seat, man! No offense meant.” 

John flinched as the man clapped a hand on his shoulder blade, leaning in conspiratorially. “You cannot blame a fellow with my lot for looking, though.”

The curl of his lip unabating, John glanced at the portrait on the far wall toward which Slickson gestured rather limply. It was a heinously oversized likeness, even for someone beautiful. As it was, the scale only made the ungenerous spacing of Mrs. Slickson’s eyes and the cramped line of her mouth more pitiable. 

There were worse things the woman could be pitied for, John thought darkly. Though he'd never dealt in gossip, to be a Miltoner was to hear every word. The talk of Slickson’s indiscreet dalliances had been circulating for weeks. 

Even with the man himself standing over him, a weeping willow of reeking spirits and ill thoughts, John would not voice his disapproval. A man’s business was his own, no matter how dishonorable.

By the time John finally cleared his head, the other masters had thankfully steered back to cotton and machinery. For the rest of the evening, he had curiously little to say, though none mentioned it.

At half past nine, the guests, including Watson, thought to make for the clubs. Having only partially drained his second glass, John was more disinclined than usual to join them. 

With the others already carousing in the street, he rounded the corner into the dimly-lit hallway, donning his hat with such haste that it almost covered his eyes.

“Begging just a moment, Thornton, before I join the other fine fellows.”

He looked back to find Slickson leaning, rather heavily and hazily, on the entryway to the parlor. 

“Surprised you are not first to Percy's,” John said flatly, noting his curious lack of gloves or coat. “But I cannot delay. I will see you next week at the meeting.”

“Wanted to run it by you first.” The man cocked his head, bidding John into the room. “There’s a scheme on American cotton that’s done rather well and wanted your thoughts.”

“And whatever makes you think I’m knowledgeable of any such scheme?”

“Oh come, Thornton.” Slickson smiled slowly. “Though you mightn’t participate in such corruption as the rest of us, you can sniff a deal better than anyone.”

John sighed wearily. He’d heard this tripe from him and the others before. Always some new scheme to cut corners and costs that, in the end, amounted to nothing.

He was still reminding himself of that fact as he placed his hat on a table beside a small chair and sat down to hear the man’s piece. 

Elbows to his knees, he leaned forward, his shadow tilting with him. “I beg you to make this quick.”

Slickson slouched against the mantle, twirling his glass idly. 

“You always were an easy draw, Thornton.” The smile on the hemisphere of Slickson's face in firelight was almost eel-like. 

“I saw him. At your wedding.”

John was grateful that when he shifted in alarm, Slickson was still entranced by the crackling flames.

“There were nigh a hundred there, Slickson. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Come off it. You know damned well who.”

“I’ve no time for this nonse—” 

John nearly did jump this time when a hand slapped the mantle in triumph.

“You could not lie to a child, I swear it,” Slickson wheezed between laughs, turning back to face him. He squinted then, ever the canny inquisitor despite his drunkenness.

“So, he’s skulking around again like the old days. Old chap still trying to claw his way into cotton, eh?”

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Don’t matter what anyone knows. Where Everhart is concerned, a scheme is sure to follow.”

Shooting Slickson a felling look, John rubbed his arm absently, as though it would smooth the gooseflesh that had arisen. Miltoners knew Everhart as a scoundrel and swindler—some even knew of his dubious parentage. A few even knew he was the son of the man who'd brought the honorable George Thornton to his knees. 

What none knew, thanks to Bell's discretion, was how close Everhart had been to taking Marlborough Mills. If John had any control in the matter, it would stay that way.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but all I can tell you is that he did not elaborate, nor did I care for him too. There was too much talk of business on my wedding day as it was.”

Slickson raised his empty glass mockingly. “Glad to hear I offend so reliably at such occasions.” 

When he made to offer a Madeira, John almost accepted before changing to a vigorous refusal, realizing the folly of it. Slickson shrugged in reply, as though grateful for more to himself. He knocked back John’s portion and then his own with disturbing effortlessness.

The man before him had become a sad portrait, John realized as the retort on his tongue dissolved. He was struggling to keep pace with American production, and he was grey and overindulged in every sense. It was too hard now to recall him, young and struggling like they both were, long before dinner parties and schemes. 

Whether it was foolish sentiment or something else, the words spilled forth.

“I say this as something like a friend, Slickson. I would refrain from mentioning any woman who is not your wife.”

The man reeled, almost looking about to fall, before he righted himself. John waited, hooked like bait on what he thought was a film of remorse over his host’s eyes.

Then, with a sneer, the cad simply poured himself another glass.

“Chattering whores, the lot of them,” he slurred. I bloody well built my mill with my bare hands. A man’s entitled to his own damned affairs.”

“And I’ve no wish to interfere any more in yours.” Regret and rage singeing his neck, John rose from his chair. 

It was a fool’s errand to try and help a man so far gone, in every sense.

“You do not leave until we are finished." 

John stiffened at the hand wrenching his forearm, almost firmly enough to hurt. With gritted teeth, he firmly unwrapped the fingers from their grip. He stood until he towered over the man that now seemed so small. 

“I give a _man_ only what he is owed.”

“How about the truth that I—that all us masters—are owed?” Slickson tried to right his footing too late this time, swaying awkwardly. Beneath an unruly lock of hair, one eye gleamed wildly in the pink glow of the room. 

“Not only are you stealing our workers—” 

“I steal nothing and no one,” John barked. “You have lost hands due to your shortsightedness alone.”

“Shortsightedness! No, Thornton. Shortsightedness is permitting your wife to roam the streets of Princeton and make a laughingstock of us all.” 

John swallowed thickly. “Margaret knows more about the business than you could ever imagine.”

“More about charity, you mean.” Slickson shook his head with a careless laugh. “Gone and made you soft, she has.”

His temples now pulsing, John looked at the floor. He could not pretend he was happy about her visits, but he would not stop her. _Could_ not, he corrected. At any rate, if the other masters did not deserve an explanation, neither did Slickson. 

He swept his hat from the table, its legs teetering with the forceful motion. 

“Go on then," Slickson said, swiping at the air as John bowed curtly. "Can’t say I blame you for leaving.”

If John had walked any faster to the foyer, he might not have heard it.

“If only I could have such a bonny lass waiting and spread so willingly for me at night.”

It was instinct to move; to lunge despite the quicksand of his fury. Through that pulsing red, he could already see it: the deep green bottle shattering against the wall, him gripping Slickson by the collar and slamming him into that gaudy wallpaper. One look back, and it was good as done.

It would be over in a minute, in blood and bruises. A minute of violence, followed by a brushfire of talk. Thornton at it again, feeding their gossip-starved bellies with the horrible fruits of his temper.

And then, after they'd devoured his honor, _she_ would hear.

Then those crystal-grey eyes would judge him and remember who he was before her.

John’s fists, clenched and ready, relaxed. There was no looking back.

And the drunken bastard would never know how Mrs. Margaret Thornton had saved him from the beating of his life.

“I will pretend, for the sake of my wife and yours,” he muttered, “that I did not hear that.” 

He felt no chill as he walked into the rain. It was, as befit his mood, that maddening temperature, too warm for snow and far too cold for comfort. All the while, words echoed at his back, beneath the drumming of his pulse. 

“ _She will be the death of you, Thornton. I swear it._ ”

* * *

After supper, Margaret settled into what had become routine solitude. With John at the Slicksons’, she had seized upon the chance to devour Owen's _Address_ , eager as ever to learn more about the workers and their hardships. 

As she read, she paused more often than usual, feeling the silence squeezing thoughts too loud to push away. Since John’s injury, Hannah’s presence in the sitting room was a scarcity. She had kept to her prayers and needlework with equal reserve, faithfully upholding her promise to stay away from the mill. Any discourse between she and Margaret was still painfully civil. She had asked about Fred at least, Margaret thought, before willing herself to forget again. 

The tepidity of their conversation had done little to ease Margaret’s roiling conflict on the question of Mrs. Thornton. Each stiff cordiality received was another reminder of those debts of apology owed. If Margaret were a banker, Hannah would have defaulted to her long ago.

This time, however, Margaret had sworn not to collect. That she’d likely be waiting until the grave for Mrs. Thornton’s atonement did little to diminish her resolve.

As she flipped to the thirteenth page, she felt the rumpling press of a finger by her own. 

_Stale lavender._

“I am sorry to interrupt your light reading, but I’ve something to say to you.”

Margaret looked up at the pinched expression and piercing gaze she knew she’d find.

“I went to visit Fanny this morning.”

“I—” 

Margaret balled a dampening fist, tucked discreetly within a fold of her gown as she tried to find the right words. It had been days since the incident at the draper’s, but she’d known even then it would only be a matter of time before Mrs. Slickson enacted some malicious revenge. Rumors were likely spreading like plague all over town. 

Mrs. Thornton had been, no doubt, the first to catch wind of them.

With great deliberation, Margaret placed the book down beside her as she stood. If a reckoning was to occur, best to get it over with quickly.

“I beg you to speak your piece, Mrs. Thornton.” She paused again. Perhaps a hint in the right direction would not be so remiss. 

“If it’s to do with Mrs. Slickson, I can explain—” 

“If you will let me a word in edgewise, girl.”

Margaret forced a controlled breath. Her mother-in-law was in no mood for hints, it seemed.

With a protracted sigh, Mrs. Thornton clasped her hands before her. “I have come to thank you for what you did last week.”

Margaret’s mouth, already tightened preemptively, slackened with confusion. “Last week?”

“Do not look at me like that, child. You know well of what I speak.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Thornton. I do not.”

The old woman pursed her lips. “Then perhaps you had better sit back down.”

Margaret did as she was bid, mostly because her jellied legs threatened to no longer support her. After a hesitant moment, taffeta rustled next to her, bidding her look to her side to find Mrs. Thornton perched, austerely as ever, on the complete opposite end of the sofa.

“I do not fault my daughter for the way she is,” the woman began grimly. "After my husband passed, there were rumors of all sorts. I’ll not dignify them by telling you, but you can imagine. No matter my feelings, I kept my head high on the street.” Mrs. Thornton’s eyes narrowed, their grey now more prominent than their green. 

“When it happened, Fanny was a baby. When she grew older, they talked.” She swallowed as though taking in poison.

“I cannot tell you how many times the girl came home sobbing.”

Margaret stilled the urge to extend her arm in comfort. “I—I am sorry, Mrs. Thornton. I did not know.”

“No, indeed you did not,” the old woman replied crisply. “And people in this town, thinking they knew the whole, did not either. Such presumption is an ill and an insult.”

The fist, still clandestine in the fold of Margaret’s gown, tightened. 

_But you do not hesitate to presume such ills of me._

“What I suppose I am trying to say,” the old woman ground out reluctantly, “is that however Fanny might complain about not going to Corfu, or wherever it is that latest strikes her fancy, you did well. A woman such as Mrs. Slickson has no business speaking of others. She needed to be put in her place, and I'll thank you for it.”

For a moment, Margaret did not, could not speak. She did not know where to begin. That Mrs. Thornton could divulge any circumstances of John’s father was rare. That she would relive a moment of such low spirits, such a wound to her family’s pride, was miraculous. That she would approve of her insulting a lady of Milton society was ridiculous.

And she was to be...thanked? 

“There is no need for thanks, Mrs. Thornton,” Margaret said, her voice low with both surprise and humility. “I assure you, I only behaved as any sister might.”

“Sister?”

Margaret flushed at the intrigued peak of Mrs. Thornton’s eyebrow. Despite their differences, she and Fanny were, in a sense, the only peers of age that could speak freely. It was close enough to sisterhood, in a sense. 

“And now that is out of the way...”

Margaret's heart sank with dread as Mrs. Thornton’s visage returned to its usual scrutiny.

“The tittle tattle is all over.”

“Of Fanny?”

“Of you.” Hannah rolled her eyes.

“They are calling you the veritable Robin Hood of Princeton. Families receiving bread and baskets, and heaven knows what else.”

Margaret closed her eyes with disappointment. Though she was sure word would travel of her visits, she was also sure Mrs. Slickson had a hand in it.

“My son has taken great pains to elevate himself—this family—once again," said Mrs. Thornton. "As such, I’ll ask you to refrain from gallivanting through the dirty streets for some time.”

Margaret blushed with shame and indignation. She had thought her old coat, threadbare as it was, and a borrowed hat might conceal her appearance a bit. 

And, seen or not, she could go wherever she chose.

“As a rule, I do not ‘gallivant,’ Mrs. Thornton.”

“Does my son know?” the old woman interjected sharply.

“He knows I visit Princeton, yes.”

“You are telling me that my son knows you visit three times per week?”

Margaret stilled. “Well—” 

The old woman snorted her condescension. “What were you planning to say to him, Margaret? To say that you are ministering to his workers? They shall come to expect such an endless font of charity that not even the Queen herself could sustain them.” 

Her bony fingers swept the book from the table. She rifled through the first few pages, as though having read each word a million times before. “And I venture to guess you have not informed my son that you are reading this volume of wisdom.”

Margaret turned violently, shifting the cushion with her.

“I shan’t need his permission on what to read, Mrs. Thornton.”

“Need I remind you of the vows you made not a month ago to my son?”

Mrs. Thornton’s eyes widened as Margaret snatched the volume out of her hands and stood, face reddening. 

“My vows mean everything. My love for your son means everything.” Margaret took in a gulp of air.

“But if you are referring to my, to my—obedience—I do not believe that he wishes me to obey. He wishes me to think for myself.”

“Headstrong young woman,” Mrs. Thornton gritted. “Thinking for yourself and acting with a care for the family name are two different things.”

“So quickly do you forget. The mill, Fanny...I have every care in the world for this family, and I shan’t need to prove it to you.” 

Volume in her shaking hand, Margaret strode toward the door, her mind on fire and her eyes flooding. Every step forward with this woman was two steps back. 

Her shoe clicked onto the wood of the hallway when she stopped. For the past month, she had hidden. They both had.

No longer.

She stormed back into the room until she stood over a very calmly seated Mrs. Thornton. 

“Do you not wish to know where he derived such a notion—that I might behave as a person of my own volition and intellect?”

The old woman raised her chin in that haughty, oracular way that was hers alone.

“From you, Mrs. Thornton. And I am proud to emulate you.”

As though the wind had been knocked from her, Margaret flopped back down onto the chaise. The tears she had choked back were now flowing silent, hot, and angry.

It was not the conversation itself that had been the last straw, but that cloud which had always hovered. Her mother and Dixon—even her father—had always favored Frederick. It was plain, but she’d accepted it, and adored Fred no less for it. It was simply a fact, quietly borne. 

But somehow, to know that Mrs. Thornton and she should be in such permanent opposition was almost worse. 

From washing curtains to watching words—to strive so hard and thanklessly for nothing. This was no different. 

A shadow moved, lingering at the corner of her eye. Margaret sighed with doleful relief that Mrs. Thornton was taking her leave. There was no bravery left to muster.

When she felt the cushion depress beside her, she swiped at her eyes, keeping them to the floor.

“Far be it from me to ignore a commendation.”

Mrs. Thornton's voice was soft. Still, Margaret could not look up; could not trust it. 

“And far be it from me to not say when I was wrong.”

Margaret’s nostrils flared. _That_ was indeed not true.

“I have never thanked you, properly, for coming back. For giving us all of this again.”

It was the gentle touch of a smooth, cold hand on her own that bid Margaret face her mother-in-law, despite the tears shining on her face. 

The expression of sternness she knew well was still there. So too was the smallest hint of hope. Perhaps forgiveness, if one searched hard enough.

She coughed hoarsely, wiping at her irreparably wet cheeks. “You have thanked me, in as many words.”

Mrs. Thornton smiled wryly. “I’ve never had many of those.”

Margaret wanted to say that the apple did not fall far from the tree, but she held her tongue. On that measure at least.

As for the rest of her thoughts, the temptation to mend the past for John’s sake, and perhaps her own, was too great not to say what she had to.

“Mrs. Thornton, I have been meaning to speak to you about our conversation...on the day after the wedding.”

The old woman pulled her hand away awkwardly only to raise it in protest.

“There is no need. I should not have spoken to you in such a way.”

Her manner, the raw shame beneath the pride, bespoke all the meaning of the words. It was the apology, or close enough to it, that Margaret had been waiting for.

_No_ her senses warned. She should not trust it. The only mother she had now was like ice, thawing only to freeze again to become more impenetrable than before. 

She should not trust. But would she?

__

The weariness at the prospect of such misery, of decades of them at odds, was enough to make Margaret’s decision for her.

__

“And I suppose that,” she replied softly, “without explanation, one could make assumptions.”

__

“Assumptions, indeed.” Mrs. Thornton’s lips quirked promisingly. “You seem to have a particular talent for finding yourself in those situations, do you not?”

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It was such an unguarded and accurate appraisal that Margaret could only reply, “I suppose I do.”

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Hoping Mrs. Thornton was not watching, she swiped her clammy hand on her gown. “And in supposing that, there is something else...” The temptation to falter choked her speech. It would be twisting the knife all over again, but there was no leaving this room until it was finished. She took a shuddering breath in the vain hope of encouraging herself

__

“I did not just come back for him you know.” 

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Her mother-in-law’s steely gaze narrowed on her, but it was too late to stop.

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“I knew that there was more I could do for the hands, for the people of this town who suffer hardship. You know I cannot stop visiting Princeton.” 

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“Oh, indeed?"

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Margaret swore the ensuing silence was created purely for her torture. Then, to her bemusement, something like a smile threatened to tug at the corner of the woman's line-etched mouth.

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“If all the city were ablaze, I’d not doubt you’d save them before the lot of us,” she said with a sardonic laugh.

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“I am not sure about all that, Mrs. Thornton.” Margaret sighed through her smile, remembering something Mr. Hale once said. 

__

_He giveth and taketh._

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“But I promise you to be more circumspect about my visits. I shall go once a week.”

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Mrs. Thornton nodded, with what Margaret perceived as a small measure of thanks. “I cannot say I dislike a bit of conviction, willful as it might be. Though, mind you, I am surprised we have any food left in the place.”

__

“Dixon does well at the market.”

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“Hmmph. Perhaps it explains why my son is nearly licking his plate clean at supper for the first time in years.”

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Margaret’s mouth rumpled, forgetting whatever she had meant to say as Mrs. Thornton stood. 

__

“Now, you know of the annual dinner.” 

__

With a beat's hesitation as Mrs. Thornton's fingers threaded together, Margaret nodded. “Yes, of course.”

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“Since we did not have it earlier this year, we would do well to have it now.”

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“Why yes.” It was a reply that came unchecked, and one that admittedly was dishonest. To Margaret's way of thinking, the wedding had been enough of a display. On the other hand, it would do no harm to proceed as normal, whenever possible.

__

“You will need to write out the envelopes soon,” Hannah said. “And, since I’ve nothing better to do these days, I shall help you.”

__

Margaret smiled, because and despite of the tartness returning to her mother-in-law's voice.

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“That is most kind of you, Mrs. Thornton.”

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With a curt nod of her head, Hannah crossed to the small desk at the other side of the room, leaving Margaret to digest what was, as she reflected much later, a most remarkable conversation. It was likely not the last misunderstanding between them. But there was no harm, she supposed, in hoping that it might be.

__

Though in too agitated a state to comprehend anything at the moment, Margaret scooped up the book again. She had reread the same paragraph twice already when the front door groaned open.

__

"Mother, Margaret." John bowed as he rushed in. Fresh splatters of moisture shone on the overcoat he began shrugging off. He stretched his shoulders, shaking off the rigors of the day as Jane whisked in and out to relieve him of the article.

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Hannah darted a benignly chastising look at him. "You are later than expected. Did the dinner run late?”

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“Slickson was speaking with me.” 

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Margaret looked over worriedly at Mrs. Thornton, wondering if she might broach any of their aforementioned conversation. 

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“I am sure,” she said, locking eyes with her daughter-in-law, “that the masters had much to say.”

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“Enough brandy and Madeira should do that to anyone, I suppose, Mother.” 

__

“Well,” retorted Hannah, “thank the good Lord that you do not suffer from such intemperance.”

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“Indeed.” John winked at Margaret to which she squinted and then smiled. Indulge he did not, but she would swear his eyes were slightly glazed over.

__

She flushed, realizing only then that he'd never before winked at her. Perhaps less temperance than his mother thought...

__

As he folded his hands, Margaret noticed a small streak of black on his palm. It was shiny and freshly smudged. Her eyes narrowed.

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"Though I am sure, husband, that none of you were writing contracts at this dinner.”

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John followed her gaze to his hands, looking at once guilty and impressed.

__

"You miss nothing. I stopped at the office for a few minutes." He smiled at her warmly before a now-familiar weariness stole over him again.

__

"There is a shipment of almost eight thousand bales next week."

__

Margaret nodded, trying to ignore the spasm in her stomach. For the past week, John had begun returning home well after supper, eyes red and strained. He had last hired new hands not weeks before, and already it seemed they were overworked—and the mill overcrowded. He had assured her that conditions would remain good, and better than at any other mill in Milton. It was a fact that she could not deny despite her reservations.

__

Still, she'd been disturbed by what she'd seen as she continued to work in John's office, overlooking the floor. Looms threatened to jab workers no matter which way they turned, the coughs of children rising above the cotton. 

__

The industry had always been at odds with the beliefs her father had so ingrained in her. Her duties to uphold them and to respect her husband were not always easy to reconcile.

__

Regardless, John had asked her to analyze, to form opinions. And opinions she had.

__

Before Margaret could beg a word of him in private, John ticked his head toward the door. "It's nearly half past ten, Mother.” His tone was gentle yet compelling. "I hope you've not stayed awake on my account."

__

"On your account I did not, my son." Hannah’s pupils glittered like onyx as she glanced sideways at Margaret.

__

"But you two may go on ahead."

__

John nodded at Margaret. That glaze, and the intention beneath it, stirred her. Their discussion she decided, less regretfully than she should have, could wait until tomorrow.

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"Good night, Mrs. Thornton. And thank you again for the envelopes."

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"If you do not stop thanking me, I might change my mind." 

__

They each kissed Hannah goodnight, Margaret feeling an unexpected spark of affection when it was her turn. She did not look back as John grabbed a lamp and walked with her into the hallway. He hooked her arm tighter as he raised the lamp higher over the stairs. 

__

"You and Mother seem to be getting on exceptionally. I do hope neither of you has taken ill."

__

"Honestly, John.” The grin on Margaret’s face was well-hidden as she minded her footing. With a soft chuckle, he curled his arm around her waist, his hand stopping just above her hip. He smelled of rain and cold, enticing her to warm his body with hers.

__

"I admit it is to some surprise we are getting on well, but I am grateful. She has certainly been of help managing the house..." Margaret looked about the hall, shivering at the hollow grandeur of it as her words trailed away. As silent as it was now, it would be abuzz again on the morrow, the snaps of crisp linen and the clinking of china preceding each meal she orchestrated.

__

"And you are doing it beautifully, Margaret." 

__

She smiled, leaning into the hum of his voice. "For a woman who is not your mother, you mean." 

__

"No," he whispered, his hair brushing her cheek as he kissed it. "For anyone."

__

When he pulled her close, Margaret both relished and cursed that thudding longing between her legs. With a red and harried face, she bid Dixon help her don her nightclothes as her husband did the same.

__

Upon opening the door between their rooms, all she could do was sigh with a frustrated smile. There on the bed he lie, still done up save for his shoes, his limbs sprawled out atop the linens. 

__

She placed a cloth under his hand, still stained with ink, before lying down beside him. Nudging her body toward his warmth, she pulled the coverlet around them both, kissing his forehead softly before her eyes closed.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those Slicksons, eh? They just seem **completely** horrible, right?
> 
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> 
> ***Steeples fingers nefariously***
> 
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> 
> Not long now, my pretties. Not long, now...
> 
> <3  
> HRM
> 
> P.S. (And yes: There will be more smut. I'm not a complete sadist. ;-)


	8. Better the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***EDIT 8/07/2018*** I fixed some awkwardness. Big plot still the same, but hoping it flows better.

For a clergyman’s daughter, Margaret was judicious in attributing things to Providence rather than coincidence. Yet when Hannah announced at breakfast one morning that Fanny was expecting, she was pleasantly certain that God was at work. 

Despite their recently brokered accord, she was admittedly relieved when her mother-in-law left quickly for the Watsons’. It was a rare Saturday that John did not go to the mill, and Margaret wanted to savor each moment with him, however quiet. 

She had set him up in the parlor to read her father’s copy of the _Symposium_ while she finished invitations for the annual dinner at her writing box. So seldom anymore did he get the chance to read for pleasure and the sake of learning itself. Her father, she thought wistfully, would have approved of today's selection. 

It was only after ten minutes that she realized not a single page had turned. Looking askance, she caught him red-handed. 

“If you peer at that clock again, Mr Thornton, I shall remove it from the wall myself.”

“Point taken.” The book closed with a clap as John leaned forward, elbows to his knees. “Though I think the patch on the wallpaper would send Mother to apoplexy.” He smiled with such unexpected rakishness that Margaret couldn’t suppress a giggle.

“No, I suppose neither of us wants that.” She smoothed her finger over the top of the stationery Edith had sent, its upper margin bursting with some exotic florid scape Fanny would love.

“I remember Aunt Shaw when Sholto was born. I can only imagine how overjoyed your mother must be.” 

"—Good for nothing. Not even prepared the silver for tea!”

Dixon's portly figure strode past the parlor entryway, wiping streaks of flour on her apron.

“Wherever are you going, Dixon?”

The servant poked her head into the room. “Seems we've a visitor, Mrs. Margaret.” She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling before looking down at her round figure. "If that lot would stop their giggling, perhaps I'd not have to greet them in such a state."

“But I’d not heard the bell.” Margaret held the feathered end of her quill to her lips, stifling a grin. This was one of Dixon's favorite, and often exaggerated, complaints.

“Seems it's broken. Could not get a look proper look, neither. From the way upstairs were set aflutter, Mrs. Margaret, I’d not be surprised if it was the Queen herself.”

“More likely just a courier," John muttered. "They’d be equally astir for the Queen’s servant’s scullery maid at our doorstep, if gossip might come of it.”

His lips curved as half a book of pages opened with a thud. Leave it to the threat of idle gossip to set John back to his reading, Margaret thought with amusement. 

As Dixon clomped down the hall and descended the steps to answer the door, Margaret returned to her writing box. She eyed the invitation list wanly. It was tempting to make a game of it, dotting the names of Miltoners who seemed so eager to disgrace her. Judging from a glance, every line would be marked. Some things, she thought wryly, had changed little since the last Thornton dinner.

Her quill had only touched upon the Carters when Dixon reentered the parlor. The old woman’s usually proud head was so downturned the top of her white cap entirely visible. 

The list floated to the floor as Margaret put the desk aside, leaping to her feet. The fear she had buried deep beneath paragraphs and conversations and numbers and lists tore through all of it. Her hopes and prayers had gone unanswered: still, there had been no word. 

_Cadiz. Fred._

"It’s that Mr Everhart to see you."

Blood and common sense rushed back to Margaret’s limbs. There was, after all, no letter in Dixon’s hands. Only in that moment did the words sink in.

_Everhart. Here._

Leather binding slapped closed.

“Did he state what he wants with me?”

Dixon eyed her master with unprecedented hesitation. His eyes were already hungry for confrontation.

“It’s the missus he wants to see, sir.”

“That is not possible.” Margaret shook her head, as if she did not believe herself. “I did not invite him. Could not have.”

“Didn't stop him last time, did it? Could not even stand the look of the man. I just knew that vagabond would—”

A glare from John was thankfully all it took to silence Dixon's rant. 

"You are right, Dixon, it did not stop him," Margaret said, her senses and reason now returned after the false alarm. She stood tall, clasping her hands with resolute defiance. She was now mistress of this house. There was no obligation to Everhart, legally or otherwise. 

There was no need to entertain even the idea of him. 

“We shall turn him away. We shall say that I am indisposed.”

“No. We cannot.”

Both women turned toward John as he finally towered to his feet. Margaret's mouth slackened, staring at him incredulously.

“But why? He—he came to our wedding celebration uninvited! As you yourself said, he has no business here.”

“He does not, but I would rather admit him now than have him slithering about. I know him, and he will keep trying for an audience until he gets one.” 

John folded his arms, tucking his elbows close to his chest. “He is also still a gentleman by reputation—what’s left of it.”

A gentleman who Mrs. Slickson might start rumors about at any moment, Margaret thought fretfully. If she were at Helstone, she’d not admit him. In Milton, there was always someone watching. The longer he stood out of doors, the longer the servants would chatter. 

With a small shiver, she recollected that horrid conversation at the draper’s. It was only sensible to get him inside and then out again as soon as possible, if the damage had not already been done.

“Send him in, please, Dixon,” asked Margaret. 

As the servant turned back to retrieve their unwanted guest, she quickly moved the writing desk to a far table, covering it with a cloth. She scurried back to the chaise, stationing herself next to John as she heard shuffling in the foyer.

Already, he had steeled himself silent. She wanted to ask again if this was truly a good idea. She knew better.

Then the shadow in front of her, cast blue on the carpet, bid her look forward. 

"Thank you for indulging me on this fine day, Mrs Thornton and Mr Thornton.” Everhart's laugh echoed like a bell, so abrupt it almost startled Margaret backward into the cushion. "You regard me, Mrs Thornton, as though you do not recognize me.”

Indeed, she scarcely did. He was now attired in the height of fashion, his suit slim and not an article out of place. While his hair was still an untenable length, there was something regal in the way it waved outward from the long line of his neck. Feral, too—like some strange jungle cat from the Great Exhibition. Yet he looked every bit the Londoner.

Still, she reminded herself, there was nothing about him she should not despise. Never mind that she had never liked London gentlemen at all.

“I do indeed recognize you, sir.” She braced her elbows with her hands, as though the room were as cold as her voice. “Though again it seems you visit us uninvited.”

“Quite right. How magnanimous you are, Mrs Thornton, to admit me nonetheless. Might I say that you look every bit the angel you did at our first meeting."

"And as I mentioned at our first meeting, sir, you use appellations which I have not earned." 

A cajoling grin lit his face, of which Margaret took little notice. She was too busy wanting to shelter under the sofa to evade that relentless stare. It made her feel as thin as stained glass; one that he both admired and saw right through.

It took her several moments, too long, to catch John’s murderous expression from the corner of her eye.

“I am sure,” he grated, finally speaking, “you did not travel all this way for compliments, Everhart.”

“No, indeed I did not.” The man smiled, his eyes never leaving Margaret.

“Forgive me, Mrs Thornton, for both of my intrusions and for my impertinence on your wedding day.”

She silently weathered a cold cramp of nausea, recalling the circumstances of his 'impertinence.' What would he dare say about it in John's presence?

“You see,” he continued, “I had not known it is you I should be dealing with.”

Margaret’s brow furrowed with confusion. “With me? I do not understand.”

“Why, yes! Though I’d had no intentions of discussing such matters on a happy occasion, I did mention that I was last in Milton on business. Well, here I am again.” Everhart winked as Margaret’s mouth popped open. “I have since come to understand that _you_ are the owner of Marlborough Mills.”

“I fear you are mistaken, sir,” she said tersely. “If you would know the law at all.”

“Ah, Mrs Thornton. Law is regrettably one of the few areas in which I do not dabble.”

Closing her lips, she prayed for restraint. Even schoolchildren knew the marriage laws. His facetiousness was infuriating. 

Everhart clucked his tongue at John. “Really, though, Thornton. All in your name, no less? Why, I thought you a more progressive chap!”

“There was no way round it, not that it is your business,” John rasped. “To my mind, Marlborough Mills is as much hers as mine, materially and otherwise.” His brief but encouraging smile did little to restore the color to Margaret's cheeks.

“That said,” he continued, turning back to his unwanted guest, “I’ll not ask you again what you want.”

“A few minutes of your time—both of your times, I should say—and I will be off your hands.”

“You have said that before. A thorn in my side, if ever there was one.”

“Ah, how poetic! Delighted that you have pursued a more classical education, old chap.”

“We—the tea shan’t be ready for some time,” Margaret interrupted, grasping John’s arm urgently. He looked almost ready to lunge. 

“No trouble, no trouble,” Everhart said, waving his hand. “I insist, in fact, upon _not_ having tea.”

Margaret nodded toward the green chair opposite the chaise. Her eyebrows knitted with wariness when he made no move to sit.

“First order of business.”

Before John could utter an admonition, Everhart made a great show of rifling through his frock coat. He pulled forth a coal-black velvet box with an ornate silver latch. Prying it open with a snap, his nimble fingers curled. Something flashed in the light before disappearing into his palm.

"As restitution for my many wrongs, Mrs. Thornton." 

Margaret's shoulder blades drew back reflexively when he strode toward her. The box clapped shut as he put it on the table to her right.

With a smooth motion, he placed something cool and metallic into her palm. His hand lingered on hers, momentarily brushing the same freckle he had kissed at their prior meeting.

Warding off a blush, she assessed the object in her hand. If she were a woman with an affinity for jewelry, she might have been struck breathless. As she had little interest in trinkets, she only stared with utter bewilderment. Hundreds of sun-colored stones—exotic diamonds perhaps—were sectioned off by filigreed silver. Vibrant emeralds formed a triangular cluster of leaves that fanned out to frame petal-like shapes. With the slight trembling of her hand, every jewel sparkled in turn. 

Her heartbeat quickened as she traced the distinctive shape of the uppermost petal. It was ostentatious, and she would never wear it.

It was also unmistakably fashioned in the likeness of a rose from Helstone.

“Mr Everhart...” 

The forwardness, the awkwardness of such a gesture made in front of her husband, was dizzying. She extended the brooch back to him without further deliberation. 

"I am humbled by your thoughtfulness, but it is far too fine for me to accept."

He was silent for a long moment. "So you would refuse it?" He smiled hopefully. "On account of your sympathy for the poor, no doubt?"

“I—it is simply too much.”

She reddened at her own bluntness as doubt, the first she had truly seen, dimmed his eyes. Their moss colored flecks were greener—brighter—at this distance than she remembered.

“It is the custom of my people to give the bride a token of her home to remember.”

"Custom or not," John cut in, "one might wonder at the intentions of such an intimate gift." He eyed the trinket with disdain as a beam of midday light taunted the stones to life again.

"Intimate? Everhart smiled knowingly. "I daresay there is nothing intimate about using simple deduction to ascertain a woman's desires, John, even one as extraordinary as our Mrs Thornton."

"Do not pretend to know what _our_ Mrs Thornton desires. Never mind that Milton is now her home.”

“Forgive me then.” Everhart's voice was hollow and detached, his expression dunning again as he bowed. “The gesture was kindly meant.”

Her head felt barely attached, tethered to her body only by guilt. What in the world were this man’s intentions?

“I believe,” she said finally and firmly, “that it would be best to discuss whatever you propose, Mr Everhart.” 

She needed to hasten the conversation for John's sake. Her husband had only ever envied Henry Knox and what turned out to be a shadowy rumor. Mr. Everhart was well within striking distance. 

To her relief, Everhart nodded with appreciation, taking his seat. “I quite agree, Mrs Thornton.” 

Margaret and John sat in kind. Their guest leaned back, crossing his legs with such leisure as though he intended on settling in for life. He threaded his fingers through each other with methodical purpose. 

"You see, there was an uncle of mine—"

"I am sure I care little about your uncle.”

"Patience, my good man,” said Everhart, clearly amused both at himself and his unhinging host. “About six months ago, poor old fellow willed me a property in Levickham, just north of here. A mill to be exact.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Talbot’s, you mean. Abandoned these last three years?”

“The very one! He was a successful master, indeed someone you would respect as much as any of your esteemed Milton men. Alas, it was one of the older mills—outfitted before the spinning mules, as I believe you call them.” Everhart threw his hands up with a shrug of his shoulders and a grin to match. “I'd no sooner know a loom from a lamp shade, myself."

“Another starry-eyed Londoner,” John muttered.

"Guilty as charged,” Everhart agreed airily. “So, I said to myself, 'why not ask one of these fine Miltoners of their interest?' The equipment all needs replacing, and it would require oversight of one who knows cotton and what it takes to build a mill from nothing. Someone who can be trusted with significant margins."

"Trust.” John sneered, his sarcasm cutting the air. "What do you know of it?"

“I know, Thornton, that you cannot refuse a business proposition.” 

“Yes, a fair proposition. This is just some scheme.”

“But if you would just listen—”

“No need.” John’s shoulders squared imperiously. "I know your tricks. You will propose I waste my time and energy to run a mill for you while you sit idly as you ever have."

Everhart chuckled outright. "Always such dramatic conclusions with you, Thornton. I’ve no intention of taking you to such a task." He angled his body closer to the Thorntons. "Though, I have heard on good authority that your enterprise has grown a bit beyond your scope."

His gaze flitted to the arm of John's chair on which his hand wrested. Though it was no longer bandaged, the line of scar wrapping round his thumb had only just begun to fade to pink. As if it had been mentioned aloud, the line disappeared as John's fist turned inward.

"Your authority is wrong. We are managing quite well."

A familiar panic clenched Margaret’s lungs, the same as during that dreadful interrogation by the policeman years ago. She could only hope that Everhart would not unravel the thread of doubt in her husband's voice. With the man's unwavering grin of confidence, it was impossible to tell.

"Now, I understand it would be some expense for operating capital. Considering the significant investment required, I would be willing to supply the equipment and all maintenance if you supply the—"

"Do not insult my intelligence."

"—Or,” Everhart drawled, as though oblivious to John's snappishness, “I would be more than happy to sell outright for a good price."

“That is,” he added, turning slyly to Margaret, “if Mrs Thornton will agree.”

Margaret pulled her shawl closer, sensing John’s earnest look in her direction. By law, it was his decision. In his heart, it was hers also.

“And we are ready,” she said, taking her husband’s hand, “to listen to what it is you propose.”

Everhart beamed with confidence as he withdrew a sealed document from his coat. It was as though he carried his entire life in its pockets.

When he proffered it, she took it quickly, ensuring her fingers were a safe distance from his this time. 

“I think that once you have read it in full, you will see that this is the far more...lucrative offer."

Margaret parted the seal, the fresh wax opening easily. With two pairs of eyes again upon her, she read as quickly and carefully as her pride would allow before handing it to John without a word. 

For something so surprising, there were none to be found.

John's eyes skimmed the parchment with barely controlled curiosity. Margaret watched fervidly, her stomach roiling as his stubbornness paled to downright incredulity. 

"You swear this is in his own hand?"

Everhart examined his fingernail with exaggerated boredom. "Despite your low approximation of me, Thornton, I am not one for committing forgeries."

"You see,” he elaborated, looking at the couple with a grin, “Slickson and I have become quite well acquainted recently. He meant to purchase it outright from me, poor fellow—though we all know he is not doing so well as you, of course." 

Margaret swore John flinched. It was true that of the workers who had defected from the other mills, more had come from Slickson’s than any other. Still, she reflected with a frown, no one in town had spoken of any hardship at the competing mills. If anything had come of the masters' dinner last week, her husband had said nothing.

Eyes still flitting from line to line as he folded the paper, John's lips drew taut as he put the document on the table. "We’ll sign nothing without seeing the place, let alone before reviewing our figures. And you’ll thank us for doing that much." 

"Bravo, Thornton," Everhart crowed, patently relishing in John's doubt. "I knew you'd come ‘round."

"We said we would review the figures and see. And that is likely all we’ll be doing."

Everhart held a long forefinger to his lips. "Is he still always this woefully pensive, Mrs Thornton?"

"No, Mr Everhart.” Margaret’s eyes again darted to and from each man, both now staring at each other, one grinning and one digging his fist into his thigh. "Perhaps it is just you who brings about such moods."

"My, Thornton," he purred, lazily uncrossing his thigh. "Intelligent, spirited, and stunning. I believe her only flaw is condemning herself to life in the North, with such want for gaiety and good company."

"...And I believe,” grated John, propelled to his feet, “that your few minutes are quite spent.”

Flicking open his timepiece, Everhart smirked incorrigibly as he stood. "Actually it has been precisely seven and a half, John. I am heartened that our friendship is progressing at last."

"Good day," John grumbled, his hand to his side.

Margaret’s fingers tightened pleadingly about her husband's forearm, but he made no motion to shake Everhart's hand. As once before, she bobbed her head in a curt goodbye, feeling those emerald eyes on her as he exited the room. 

It was not until she heard Dixon bid Everhart a perfunctory "Good day, sir" from the corridor that she expelled a shuddering breath. 

As she came back to herself, Margaret sensed the emptiness beside her; the lack of pressure on her crinoline. John was already subjecting the floorboards to a merciless pacing. 

The proposal scrawled through her mind, though some words were lost to the occasional angry creak of her husband’s feet on wood. Everhart had already gotten Slickson to sign. If John agreed, it would be fifty-thirty-twenty: Thornton, Slickson, Everhart—hands and labor; equipment and property. It was a simple proposition, on the surface. 

As John warned—the point she was about to make herself—it was still not a light undertaking. The terrible incident with the O'Neill and Jennings boys was still fresh in everyone’s mind. If they even went forward with the venture, there would then be equipment installations, inspections, and other preemptory activities. It could take months; perhaps a year. The thought alone was prohibitively daunting.

At the same time, Margaret could not ignore the memory of the crowded warehouse floor, workers shuffling about for purchase. If things continued like this, Marlborough Mills would burst at the seams. The scheme’s proposer was a scoundrel, but it was a proposal that they must consider.

“The air would be cleaner, no doubt,” she finally said, having summoned some bravery.

John stopped in his tracks, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I said we would review it just to placate the man. I’ve no intention of dealing with him."

She looked at him aghast, already feeling the fool for how much she had already pondered and planned. "Then why did you tell him we would consider it?"

"To keep him at bay. There will be a solution—we shall find one—but he’ll be having no part of it. And I've no intention of letting Slickson know it either."

Margaret exhaled with a small, strangled gasp. He had decided—already and without her. "But who else could offer us such an opportunity?"

His eyes flashed. "There is no opportunity. It is a scheme."

"It is a contract, and there must be some truth to it,” she said with measured insistence. Surely, he was not thinking rationally. “We must consider the workers. How can we deny them this?"

“I’ll not deny them. I’ll also not deny that it’s as good a space as any.” He withdrew one hand to brace his neck, as though it ached. “Even if I were to deal with that man, there is much to consider—any number of obstacles. It is six miles beyond Milton.”

“There is the outbound trolley, is there not?” 

“And it will be a considerable expense, two-way.” 

“Then we shall have to make some economies.” She stared up at the brocade golden drapes Mrs. Thornton had bought—one of her earlier battles lost. “We can live more simply.” 

The smirk he gave, as though she were a buyer about to cheat him, chilled her. “As we have before? Do not pretend it was easy in Crampton any more than I’ll pretend it was easy in the poorhouse.”

“I said nothing of such extremes.” Margaret shook her head in disbelief at his coldness. This was no time for him to revert to unreasonableness, let alone callousness. Her father's memory blazed in her heart as she stepped backward. 

”Are you to mean that the hands are less deserving? Of even half of what we had at our least fortunate?” Her jaw trembled with pious anger. “That little boy has lost an arm because of this mill, and now you mean to injure all of the hands. I’ll not hear this from you, John Thornton.”

He grasped her shoulders before she could walk away. His fingers were warm, sincere, and rough, a jolt of pressure and fire. The last time he had touched her this way he was moving within her body, her name a plea on his lips. 

Intensity billowed in his eyes like dye in water. “I will deal with this situation, with Everhart, directly from here on out.”

It took moments for the words to meet Margaret’s comprehension. She’d expected him to finally chastise her for Princeton, for Mrs. Slickson, if he had heard. 

In so many ways, this was more of a blow. Her participation and opinions in day-to-day operations of the mill were far more welcome than her opinions on the decisions that might shape its future. Despite his promises, he was shutting her out again. He was telling, not asking.

“Excuse me? I understood that we were to participate equally in all matters of business.”

The angles of his face were sharp with perseverance and assurance. “I meant every word of what I said, my esteem for all that you’ve learnt. But I do not trust him.” He turned, thus giving himself the final word.

 _No._ He would not run from this. 

“I do not see why I should not be present—”

A breath caught in her lungs as he stretched his arm to swipe the box from the table, only to place it down again with a resonant click.

“I should think his _gift_ is proof enough.”

"Proof of what, exactly? That I am too weak to manage such important affairs?" Her voice faltered as she looked at the table. "And I have every intention of returning it."

“I care not what you do with it, and only a fool would think you weak.” His expression shuttered, his teeth clenching together.

"Do you think I did not see the way he looked at you, Margaret—today and before?” 

Her ears, her face—everything was ablaze, but there was no time to cool herself. “I’d not told him where to look.”

“Still, I daresay you found his attentions flattering,” he growled, storming toward the fireplace.

She watched in disbelief as he leaned into the mantle, kneading the stone beneath anxious fingers, his head framed between his arms. His words drifted into the flue, just barely audible.

“You would not be the first.”

Margaret clutched at her stomach, another blow landed. For him to think her so easily swayed, so fickle and free with her affections. It was the same implication that had once cut her to the soul. 

_‘You must imagine what I must think.’_

_Yes_ , she thought in a fog of red, she very well could imagine. And it was so beneath the man she loved. 

She marched up to the table, to that horrid black box that sat like Pandora’s sin. The glimmering memory of what was inside made her want to hurl it through the window.

"I may not be the first to claim Everhart’s attentions,” she hissed, “but I’ve no desire to be the next.” 

She stared at his shoulders, the line of them unmoving even as colors and shapes began to blur in her anger. Still, he would not look at her.

“As for the gift, you heard me refuse it. What more could I have done to your satisfaction? Was I not silent enough whilst you spoke—barely letting me have a word?”

She waited. Nothing. The silence was now his.

With a huff, she walked toward the window, taking meager satisfaction in having the final word, this time. Her fingers tapped the window frame, unable to accomplish anything else. Anything she said now she would regret.

At length, he spoke first. He so often did in such situations, she realized with a pang.

“It was not right. It...was not what I ever meant to say.” 

She turned until the sun no longer warmed her cheek, but not fully to face him. It was a familiar pattern. Always, he offered apologies, and immediately she would forgive him. She would be the better person for her silence; to make him understand the weight of it.

“I saw the flower in your hair."

Beneath the rolling boil of her anger, dread trickled through her veins. _Oh, do not speak it aloud!_ she prayed.

"I saw it on our wedding day, the two of you together. I was lost again as when I thought you loved another.”

She winced. “And have you so soon lost faith in me again?” 

His footfalls, softening on the carpet, stalled right behind her. The faint scents of parchment and sandalwood clung to his collar.

“I have every faith in you, my love. I have none in him.”

His voice was tremulous and pleading beyond her ability to ignore. Yet it was ridiculous to think that she could not withstand conversing with a man of dubious character. To him, it was a matter of honor: to her it was foolishness.

“You are not my white knight, John. To be rescued and to be guarded are the last things I ever wanted.” 

He said nothing, perhaps because he could not. She looked down at the fine rug in this fine room, feeling its cloistering suffocation. Would they never fully understand each other?

Suddenly a sound hummed on her cheek. Somehow, he was laughing.

”No, a white knight you have never needed. Do you not know it is why I love you?”

His words radiated from the nape of her neck to her fingertips. When she closed her eyes, blinking back a tear of frustration, the glimmering jewels of the brooch were gone. There was only the yellow blossom in John’s hand, extended to her in both love and in truce. He had never meant it as a decoration. It was, simply and beautifully, a declaration that he understood what struck and stirred her, the littlest things that moved her to such great feeling.

“Forgive my curtness, Margaret," he said, tethering her thoughts to the present. "I was otherwise preoccupied.”

“With what, John?" she implored, far too weary to address the topic of forgiveness once again. "Please tell me.”

”Watson has lost thousands.”

Her hand was already damp with nerves as she raised it to her cheek. “How many?”

John heaved a weak shrug. “He could not bring himself to say.”

The thought, clear as a nightmare, almost sent Margaret to her knees. She saw, in the dirt of Princeton, the same tattered shawl Mrs. Boucher wore wrapped round Fanny and her baby. It was not unheard of for a family to fall so low under terrible circumstances. Her sister could not see such a fate.

“How shall we help them?”

His hands clasped behind his back with determination. “There is a convention, next week in London. On free trade, as they call it. I’ll be the first to admit that I know little to nothing.”

Margaret rubbed her hands together fretfully. “So you think that the Watsons will escape ruin?”

“It shan’t so quickly come to that. Not if I can help it.”

The sensation of being in his grip, almost as potent as the first time he’d touched her, sprang to her mind. “How long will you be gone?” 

“Three days. Four perhaps.”

She nodded, quietly disconsolate. The constant work at the mill had left her craving his intimacy, and one night apart was trial enough. She dismissed the thought, realizing with shame how selfish it was. 

Anxiety welled in her as she thought of another pertinent question. She was already unsure if she wanted the answer.

“And what of the mill? Who shall run it?"

John smiled warmly. “It goes without saying that I leave it in your hands.”

“Mine?" she breathed.

In that moment, she couldn't begin to recall a tenth of what she'd learnt. Though she had watched him complete nearly every task he might have, the amalgamation of those responsibilities seemed overwhelming. 

His touch on her arm was warm and comforting. “You know most everything there is to know already. Besides you will have Nicholas—and Mother, if needed.”

Margaret stood erect, though she was sure she still looked like a frightened rabbit. “And what of our decision?”

“Last time I refused a scheme, I nearly lost everything,” he murmured, his palm outturned. “If Marlborough Mills burnt down tomorrow, I could not live with myself for the workers’ sake—for you and for Mother." He clasped his hands again, running one thumb over the other. 

"I will not bury workers again."

The cracking pain of his words broke her. She sighed hopelessly as she leaned her head toward his heartbeat, its cadence calling to her.

“It is what I have been trying to say these past weeks, John. Marlborough Mills cannot go on as it is.”

His arms tightened protectively around her. “No, it cannot.”

She was about let herself become lost in his warmth when she stilled. If they did move forward on this deal, her rashness may have cost them already. She'd no right to his trust without giving him her honesty.

“There is a complication." With a nervous swallow, she forced herself to look up at him. "With Slickson. I have said something to his wife.”

“As I have heard."

She flushed violently at his knowing smirk. “Are you very angry with me for it?” 

“I am sure that it was not without provocation. She should mind her own business, public fodder that it now is.”

He kissed her forehead, making her all the more eager to lay her head upon him again. “How ever shall we deal with such horrid people?” she murmured into his chest.

“They are not the first difficult people I’ve encountered in business." His finger smoothed a curl from her forehead. “To quote one of my best hands, ‘better the devil you know, and best to know they are the devil.'”

Margaret’s mouth formed a tired crescent at the classic Higginsism. “I suppose I do understand your reasons for keeping me from him—from Everhart.” 

John took a sharp breath, but she did not stop. “He frightens me—all that you have said he is capable of.”

He spoke after a moment’s silence. “As he should.” 

Her eyes closed as tender, placid fingers wound through her hair. 

“But he was right about one thing.”

A smile was forming over the triangle of his chin above her.

“I have no business commanding anything of you. On my honor.”

Her jaw trembled ever so slightly, the weight of emotion tightening her chest. This gentle manner was his truth, unclouded by doubt or jealousy or anger. When those things were stripped away, there was always steadiness and balance and kindness. For so long, Margaret had been teetering on the edge of one tragedy or another. It was he who had steadied her through it all.

The thought of change, yet again, was overwhelming. She was unsure of how to manage the mill for four days, let alone make one of the most important decisions in Marlborough Mills’ history on her own. To do so would be to undermine every effort her husband had made. If she made a poor decision in the venture, the nights sleepless John had spent of late would be for nothing.

Her heart had long been with the mill. She’d yet to master its mind—and his.

“I admit, I did not think of the kitchen when I spoke of transport,” she confessed. “I am still unaccustomed to thinking in pounds and pence, I am afraid.” 

“Thank God you do not.” John smiled in that lazy way that lightened her whole being. “We might not be able to do it, but I might have never thought of the trolley, myself.” 

She gasped as he pulled her upward, fully enveloping her in his arms.

_His eyes. No jewels or gems._

Her weary body awakened as he brought his lips to hers with a bruising kiss. Later, when no one was looking, she touched them in the glass so that the memory might tingle upon her mouth.

He would only be a few days, she told herself. Just a few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was quite nervous about this one. It's dramatic, but when isn't it, really? You know what you've signed up for by now. :-)
> 
> LOTS going on, folks! So many thoughts and questions!
> 
> \- Fanny's with child! (If you thought she was a hoot before...) Let's hope Watson can get it together, with John's help, perhaps.
> 
> \- By unpopular demand, Everhart is back, wheelin' and dealin'. Is he a right bastard, or is his deal actually worth anything?
> 
> \- Margaret and John fall victim to yet another tango of misunderstandings. When will they finally 'get' each other?
> 
> \- Are Fred and Dolores OK?
> 
> \- And when, oh when, will Mrs. Slickson strike back? 
> 
> ...Stay tuned...until...soon...
> 
> Comments, by the way, are extra welcomed at this juncture in our soap operatic journey. (And yes: I am still making you await that smut and yes: though I love my angst, there will be fluff.) 
> 
> Whew.
> 
> xx,  
> HRM


	9. My Thoughts Turn to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly table-setting for good stuff to come. Megasmut (still trying to keep it tasteful) will be in a few chapters. In the meantime, a few little crudités to tide you over. :-D

Much as John admired railway travel in theory, he loathed it in practice. It ill afforded him opportunities to pace as he thought, a habit as vital to him as breathing.

Turning his neck in discomfort, he glimpsed the occupant of the adjacent booth. The man’s coat was tailored handsomely. His hands, age-spotted but not callused, clutched a leaflet. It was of especial interest owing to the familiar typeface peeking round the pamphlet’s curled edge.

The gentleman heaved a polite cough, his movement tilting the cover into view. 

_The Philosophy and Nature of the Exchange._

With a resigned frown, John rifled through his portmanteau until he found his own rumpled copy. Despite wishing to quit the mill early, business had kept him until the bell. In his haste, he'd crammed the pamphlet into his bag just before departing for the station.

Leaving it behind might have given him away entirely.

Knowing it would not assuage his guilt, he scanned the first day's agenda anyway. The consortium had just begun, miles behind him. Since the other Milton masters would not arrive until Monday, his absence would go unnoticed. For various reasons, including fears of a strike, several masters had remained behind, Watson among them.

The visit to the Watsons' earlier in the week had gone better than anticipated. After reviewing the man’s books, it was plain where overhead could be cut and his losses could be recouped. 

It gave John the permission he'd been seeking to skip the first day's events.The opening forums were naught more than introductions and smalltalk. With no need to engage prospective investors on his brother-in-law's behalf, there was no need to attend.

He entrusted Watson with keeping the truth of his detour safe, especially from Fanny. Her silvery complexion and unusual silence had left him with more filial sympathy than usual. Even if there was no danger of her speaking to Margaret, it would not do to worry her.

Shoving the schedule away, a flash of red caught John's eye. He squinted, at first thinking it a trick of light. When his fingers pinched the wax seal, drawing the contract forth, he examined it with a surprised frown. How Everhart's proposal had made it into his luggage, he could not recall. 

There was no good reason to have brought it. He'd read it through more times than he'd care to admit. The man's unsolicited visit had been as infuriating as his proposition.

Tolerating Everhart's usual jibes had been easier than expected. Even the surreptitious negotiations with Slickson hadn't fazed him. Business was business. Every man had a right to fortune through legal means. 

Margaret, however, was another matter. That rake had all but devoured her all while forcing John, shackled by civility, to watch.

His was an admittedly juvenile sort of jealousy, making his subsequent argument with Margaret all the more shameful. She'd not mentioned the conversation since.

He could not stop thinking about it.

Rather than casting Everhart out, he'd allowed him into his home and heard his audacious proposal. Even worse, Margaret had been right: The proposition _was_ sound. 

_Damn it all._

John's thumb smudged over the letters of his name, the line above it unsigned. Before he was tempted to again scrutinize the details, he tucked it away again, resolving to keep it there until his return to Milton.

He closed his eyes, finding himself again chasing tranquility. As his thoughts always turned to Margaret, he saw her standing as she had that afternoon at the train station, bidding him goodbye. 

_Rose lips curving, inviting the brush of his. A navy dress that did something lovely and violet to her eyes._

It was almost as she'd looked at Mrs. Hale's funeral, all porcelain features framed in black. Even from a distance, her grief was silently his. He'd watched uselessly, transfixed as a tear had slipped into the corner of her mouth. It shamed him, then, how much he had needed to kiss her.

How much a few years had changed. In recent days, the mill had worn him threadbare to the point of falling asleep in his trousers. When he awoke, she was too often serene and unflushed. Unkissed.

Months ago, he could not have imagined his work affecting their intimacy. One morning, he had awoken to find her legs wrapping around him. Pushing past exhaustion, he cradled her warm body to his, quieting his moan as he slipped within her. Slight as she was, she could not see him biting his lip, both in concentration to stay awake and not to lose himself. Too soon he had shuddered against her, before the insistent renting of her fingers on his shoulders, those pleading sighs he craved. 

It had happened again. Twice.

He looked up, resigned to his present turmoil. At some point, the sprawl had given way to shades of umber and sage. Not half an hour more, he guessed.

Once it was all settled, he would return to Milton. He would find a way to manage, Everhart be damned. With purpose and passion renewed, he'd devote himself to his wife fully and properly again. 

“Guildford!” 

_Provided she will forgive me this_ , he thought with no small measure of worry. 

* * *

Margaret awoke to a wintry silence, the space beside her undisturbed. 

It was Sunday, and John was gone. 

She huffed a breath of quiet longing. He should have left Friday on the night train, but he had chosen to stay through Saturday afternoon, attending only the evening reception at the London consortium. In addition to seeing more of him, if only for a few hours, Margaret was grateful that he’d seen over the mill's half-shift. It had left her with a full day to prepare before the whistle on Monday morning.

Frigid air clutched at her ankles as soon as she removed the quilt. Jane was always good about the water, at least, so she could count on a tepid bath. The thought of emerging from it, however, was enough to set her shivering.

Breakfast was quiet, as was the ride to the church in the brougham Mrs. Thornton insisted upon being dragged out on Sundays. Margaret had attended Presbyterian services before, but never without her husband. Feigning some complaint to stay at the house was not worth losing her mother-in-law's newly granted favor. 

While John had never insisted on conversion, Mrs. Thornton had voiced her opinion before the banns had been read. After Margaret's crisp reply that she would consider the matter, the subject had thankfully not been raised again. In time, accompanying John had become as natural as waking.

Such willingness to embrace another faith, especially as a former clergyman's daughter, might be construed as disloyalty. She'd told no one, but her reasons were the opposite. Her father had gone to the grave without her knowing which precise doctrines had torn his conscience apart. Irrational as it was, to profess them might dishonor his memory. 

To Margaret's disappointment, the service dragged overlong. Without John's warmth shielding her from the occasional draft, the pew felt rigid and cold. The congregation's muffled and summary replies did little to warm the space. Though she had little talent for them, instruments and singing seemed vital accompaniments to prayer. Perhaps it was heretical, but echoing a Precentor seemed an uninspired form of praise. 

At some point after the lengthy sermon, Mrs. Thornton had raised one eyebrow at her before returning to her Psalter. Margaret was sure she'd been perfectly placid, but resolved not to fidget all the same. Then again, she mused, her mother-in-law's expressions seldom matched her words. Since their reconciliation, she'd spoken as kindly to her as a woman of such sternness was capable.

_Up and down we go._

The sun was a blurred orb behind clouds as the congregation streamed out. Mrs. Thornton scanned the folk dispersing on the lawn with peculiar keenness. It only then occurred to Margaret that Fanny and Watson had not joined them as usual.

Upon at last seeing the Watsons in the crowd, they made their way toward them on the lawn. 

“Good morning to you both," the Thornton matriarch said, her voice clipped with both sharpness and concern. "We were expecting your company at the service." 

Watson offered a wan smile. “Forgive me, Mrs Thornton. It was I who suggested taking a place in the back today.”

Any look of vexation on Mrs. Thornton’s face dissipated at her daughter's green-as-gills complexion. “Is it just the mornings, child?” 

Fanny, at a rare loss for words, only shook her head. 

Margaret regarded the exchange with pity and a bit of shock. Edith would have been horrified at discussing such matters in public. Once again, Margaret thanked the North for the bluntness far more aligned with her nature. 

“Fanny," she broached, "have you any ginger in your household?” 

“Likely not,” Mrs. Thornton supplied, rescuing her daughter. “Have we any?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, but I would be happy to procure some now. Dixon used to say it is the only thing that would settle my mother during her confinement.”

Rather than displaying disinterest or embarrassment, Watson nodded, hanging on to every word. 

Fanny swallowed, as though even speaking caused some great strain. "That would be appreciated. I was also wondering..." She plucked at her glove before looking back at her sister-in-law. “I was wondering if you might join me for tea tomorrow.”

Margaret was about to accept with enthusiasm when she remembered. Starting tomorrow, she would be at the mill. 

On her own.

She felt a sudden, fluttering urge to find a water closet.

By Fanny’s pinched expression, a moment's hesitation had already been considered a refusal. Margaret placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Might Wednesday be soon enough? That is,” she added, turning to Hannah, “if you would not mind watching the floor for an hour or two?” 

Mrs. Thornton nodded with an expression of pleasant surprise. “I certainly have nothing better to do." 

“Wednesday at half past three, then,” Fanny replied. Her smile was too relieved to be proud. She hooked her husband's arm in her own, looking once again in need of support. 

“Come, Watson. Would you both care to join us for luncheon?" 

Now that she had remembered it, Margaret's nerves about the morrow were getting the better of her. If ever she was to get some peace, now was her chance.

“Thank you, but please go on ahead. I shall fetch the ginger myself and send Jane over with it. It is a beautiful day to be walking.”

At the mention of her former servant, a bit of pink returned to Fanny’s cheeks. Under the circumstances, a bit of gossip from an old confidant could not hurt, Margaret thought with satisfaction. 

“As you like.” Hannah looked heavenward. “You and my son. If ever a pair were to die of strolling in the fresh air.” 

Margaret’s eyes sparkled as she imitated her mother in-law’s stern smile. “I promise it shan’t do me in.” 

It was only after her family took their leave that Margaret sighed with happiness. Despite the sun again seeking shelter behind a cloud, the freedom of the outdoors was invigorating. Walking through the park, she reveled in the clean autumn air that one could only find at such elevation. 

The curtain of haze was heavy as she crossed the small bridge overlooking the canal. It was a wonder, Margaret thought, how she once coughed at the abrupt thickness of the air. Now she needn’t even reach for her handkerchief. 

The streets were stiller than usual, but busy enough to take care of wandering carts and chickens and scrambling children. In the towns of the New Forest, the shops would all be closed. In Milton, even the Lord’s day was no exception to business.

“Oi—move along, Miss!”

Clutching her hat, Margaret narrowly dodged an omnibus. Her jaw slackened from its vexed tightness as she brushed off her skirts. Having collected herself, she scanned the buildings' façades for some telling dedication.

Since their return to Milton, Dixon had chosen a new grocer and had insisted upon going herself. Margaret owned that she might have forgotten the direction.

After a wrong turn or two, she'd found her way to Polwyck's. Other than the arc of a wiry eyebrow at Dixon's absence, Mr. Polwyck was more than obliging. Since the ginger might brook some talk, she bought a few other items, including the last of the season's plums. If preserved in time, there would be plum cakes enough for the dinner party.

Thank heaven the invitations had gone out already, Margaret mused as the shop door closed behind her. Once John was home, she could catch her breath before hosting what she had secretly planned as her first annual Christmastide event. Though she'd not told Mrs. Thornton or John of her plans to permanently change the season of the long-held annual dinner, she hoped that the event's success would speak for itself. Milton's endless winters were far more in need of merriment than its pleasant summers.

Just beyond the Lyceum Hall, she happened to notice a young gentlewoman emerging from a carriage. As the lady descended, the light caught something quite blinding. A brooch of shimmering gold and colored stones.

Margaret's heart sank thinking of her own brooch, now tucked out of sight in her trunk.

Everhart's gift. 

The carriage pulled away, a group of children laughingly tagging after it. At what should have been a happy sight, Margaret had to will herself not to turn away. All were clearly from Princeton, soot-smudged and unkempt. One of the boys seemed worst off, his clothes so full of holes that some had layered together through shirt and coat, leaving patches of bare arm to the elements. She prayed he was not one of John's hands.

 _And mine_ , she corrected.

As she crossed back toward Front Street, taking the longer way home, each step became heavier. Here she was, pondering dinners and jewels when children were still in need. Food was always the first resource in mind, but there was far more work to be done. With bleak determination she faced the canal, her gait slowing as she watched the waning daylight skipping and sparkling on the surface. 

_Yes._ That was her answer.

She beamed with triumph, her plan organizing itself. Everhart's brooch was a gift to her. By law, she could do with it what she wished. And now, her greatest wish was to feed and clothe Princeton's families at Christmastide.

No matter how _gauche_ Fanny or Edith might think it was to sell it, Margaret already saw the idea as a matter of duty. Why keep such a gaudy piece, good only for attracting dust, when its profits could be of such use?

Her steps were lighter as she walked, her shadow long beneath the lowering sun. It was also a Christian act, she admitted with bittersweet sentiment, that would have made her father proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just saying "hi" and some personal updates. Feel free to skip. :-) 
> 
> Long story short, a lot's happened since I last posted. The biggie is that my oncologist took a bunch of biopsies from my vagina and other fun lady parts after 15 years of chronic precancer/surgeries (more @ [Her_Royal_Majestrix](http://herroyalmajestrix.tumblr.com)). 
> 
> The great news is that, as far as they can tell, I don't have invasive cancer. In December, my high-grade precancer (cancer stage 0) will be lasered off during what will be my third procedure in three months. After that, it's one day at a time.
> 
> This experience has changed everything. One of the happy changes is that I'm diving back into writing, including fic. My wonderful beta and bestie, [Europolarist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Europolarist/pseuds/Europolarist), has also given me a loving, but much-needed, kick in the bum to finish this darn thing. 
> 
> This horrible adventure has made me extra grateful for not only my in-person friends, but also for you all. Of all the fandoms, N&S is my heart. You are inspiring, imaginative, supportive, and have the patience of saints with my glacial updates. No matter what my future brings, I am blessed to have you, dear readers.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> HRM
> 
> P.S. (Sorry for the mush: on painkillers and PMS-preventative chocolate.)


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